


The Bloody Wolf of the North

by Daemon_Belaerys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Gore, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows something, Multi, Ned goes grey before his time, Oral Sex, Petyr's plans are fucked up by accident, Pregnancy, R plus L equals J, Sexual Humor, The King in The North, The North is awesome, Tywin/Cersei hates Jon, Warg Jon, did I mention AU?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9099436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys
Summary: What if Jon had inherited more than just Lyanna's colouring. What if he, like his mother and his uncle Brandon had the 'Wolf's Blood'. A what if story featuring Jon as a rather more assertive character than he is in the books or show. Standard warnings for GoT/ASoIaF fics. Violence, blood, sex and gore. Butterfly effect. Things will be different and the same. Mix of GoT/ASoIaF.





	1. In the beginning

Here is the image that started the story for me, and kinda what I imagined this much wilder Jon would look like.  


**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**Winterfell. 297 AC. 'Ned'**

Lord Eddard 'Ned' Stark gave out a sigh of content as he, Maester Luwin, and his wife Catelyn finished going over the numbers. It had been a relatively good year for the North (and as such for Winterfell) with successful fishing, the Manderlys had been fortunate enough that not only had they not lost a single ship, but had been blessed by fair winds all year, allowing for more trade.

"We could have had more Ned if it weren't for the bastard," Cat said with steel in her voice.

Luwin darted his head around as if searching for an escape while Ned let out another sigh, this one out of frustration. It was true in a fashion; Jon, Lyanna's boy that the Realm thought to be his bastard (though unknown to Ned this belief was coming under more and more scrutiny in the North). He had brought Jon with him from Dorne at the end of the Rebellion, and had been more than pleased that the boy did not resemble his father… had, being the keyword here. As the boy grew it became abundantly clear that other than having a very p retty voice and a somewhat more handsome face than most, the boy seemed to have been blown out of Lyanna's nose, and more importantly out of his brother Brandon's nose.

The wolf-blood was strong in the child most said, and Ned, as much as he would like, could not disagree with them. While he tried to give Jon the same education as his own boy Robb, what with letting him sit in on Robb's lessons on numbers, letters and the like, Jon seemed to only be at home on the back of a horse or with a sword and axe in his hands. Unless Jon was out riding (with or without permission) he would most often be found in the practice yard, and it showed.

Bastards grew up quicker people said (often using Jon as proof) as after the boy had started to enter into his manhood he shot up like a weed. Half a head taller than Robb (perhaps short a shy inch or two of Ned's own height) the boy was broad of shoulders, and from what Ned had seen when the boy shed his shirt on warmer days there appeared to not be an ounce of fat on him, which was understandable considering the time he spent honing his skills in combat, with or without weapons. Ned was often stung with painful remembrance when he laid eyes on the boy, as it was almost like seeing Brandon in the flesh, the same laughter…the same wildness and look of mirth on his face.

While the boy was still young Ned hadn't given it much thought, simply glad that the boy reminded him so much of the brother and sister he had lost… and then he started growing. His voice deepened, his face started to mature, losing the baby fat and gaining the start of a beard, and most distressingly to his wife (and by default Ned who had to listen to her complaints) the boy started to take an interest in girls and alcohol, and much worse, the girls started to take an interest in him. Regardless of his status as a bastard, the boy had a…vitality to him that drew people in, a youthful vitality that Ned could remember Brandon also possessing, and he suspected Cat remembered it too as she had been constantly hounding him, and keeping an abnormally sharp eye on the boy ever since he had turned two-and-ten.

She was right to be afraid. While Brandon had done his fair share of chasing girls he had only bedded the one to Ned's knowledge, his position as the oldest son of Rickard Stark keeping him somewhat in check. Jon…had no such responsibilities. He was more than aware of his status as a bastard, and knowing how his father's wife detested him, knew that legitimization was a more unrealistic dream than hatching a dragon. He would gain no holdfasts, nor a good marriage, at least not while Catelyn Tully lived, and combined with Ned's refusal to tell him anything about his mother seemed to make it his life's goal to enjoy life to the fullest.

The boy had not even turned three-and-ten the first time he was escorted into Ned's solar by a fuming Rodrik Cassel who was holding the boy by the ears. Barely standing due to the ale he had consumed, there had not been an ounce of shame on the boy's face as Ser Rodrik explained angrily how he had caught Jon in bed with his second oldest daughter. Ned had been disappointed of course, had even yelled at Jon and forced the boy to apologize, though from the look on Jon's face the only thing the boy regretted was being caught.

Remembering the promise he had made to Lyanna on her deathbed Ned had never thought to foster Jon away with someone else, but seeing how much the boy reminded him of Brandon he had tried to give it a go, if only to give Cat (and himself) some peace of mind. A short discussion with Lord Medger of House Cerwyn and Jon had been shipped off. It would be good for the lad, Ned had reasoned to himself, to spend some time outside of Winterfell on a permanent basis, and being only half a day's ride away, Jon could still visit when he felt like it. He had warned Medger about Jon being 'more than a handful' and to not let Jon be alone around women, to which Medger had just laughed and made a few amused remarks about wolf's-blood.

Jon had made it almost a year visiting perhaps a day or two every week, before Medger had ridden hard to Winterfell, absolutely furious after having discovered Jon in the bed of his youngest daughter Lyra. Ned had almost lost his composure when he saw how furious Medger was, as the Lord of Cerwyn was for the most of the time a very calm man. Apparently discovering Jon in bed with his daughter had been the last straw, as Jon had just earlier that very night managed to end up in a brawl at the local tavern which had ended with the entire stockpile of ale washing out on the floor, three broken arms, one broken jaw and black eyes for every man involved (Jon himself was sporting two very impressive ones). Exactly what had set of the brawl was never discovered as neither Jon nor any of the others involved came clean, so Ned's only choice had been to thank Medger for taking Jon in (and to hand over a small pouch of gold for his daughter's maidenhead).

Ned's fury when Medger had left had been enough to frighten Jon onto something resembling a straight and narrow path…for a few good peaceful weeks at least, until Theon had said the wrong thing to Jon.

From what Ned had unearthed, Jon had quite literally run into Theon at the brothel in Winter Town, both boys apparently of the same mind, and when the…'Lady' of Theon's desire, as well as another had apparently flubbed the Greyjoy (and his coin) in favo u r of welcoming Jon back to Winterfell free of charge (Ned was unwillingly impressed at that), Theon had apparently whispered the wrong thing in Jon's ears, as in the next moment five of his guards had thrown themselves at Jon to pull him away before he beat Greyjoy to death (instead of the black and blue he had been reduced to). What had been said was unknown to Ned as Jon simply stood in defiant smugness, refusing to say a word other than that Theon had given him grave insult. Theon himself was as of yet unable to say anything on account of a broken jaw and broken wrist.

That had been a bad night as after he had dismissed Jon back to his rooms (with two guards ensuring he stayed there) he'd had to listen to Cat rant for another hour. Eventually he caved just to relieve himself of the headache. A flight of a raven later and Jon had been shipped to Bear Island, with Ned hoping that the She-Bear Maege could beat some sense into the lad, and considering how fond she was of clobbering people, himself included over the head with her fists or mace he had good hope that perhaps she could turn Jon into a decent lad…how wrong he had been.

He had received plenty of ravens, both from Jon himself (who was very pleased at where he was) and from Lady Maege. With the men of Bear Island often being gone for weeks on end due to fishing, it was quite common for the womenfolk to pick up the sword or axe whenever the island found itself under attack, and Jon who had no interest what so ever in fishing had chosen to stay on the island instead to 'help out' as he had written in a letter, though Ned feared he had ulterior motives (one of a handful of men all alone on an island with nearly only women and one  woman in particular come to mind). Still it was good that Jon had chosen to stay, as the wildlings from north of the Wall and 'raiders' (Ironborn, he thought angrily) he seemed to choose to step up their activities. During Jon's time he had been at the forefront of no less than eight wildling incursions (two on land near the wall and six on the island itself) and three 'pirate' raids, the last of which was the cause of no end of headaches for Ned.

Six long ships (bearing no sigil) had landed on Bear Island and been slaughtered almost to a man, with the exception of the crew of one ship that had not only managed to escape but to also bring with the Maege's fourth daughter Jorelle. Jon had taken exception to that (and Ned was almost afraid to think of why he had been so furious) and had gathered together four hundred men and women from Bear Island (including Maege's eldest daughter), taken the remaining five long ships and set off in hot pursuit. They had caught up with the long ship which held Jorelle not too far away from the Iron Islands and killed everyone on board, and if only they had stopped at that Ned would have been satisfied, but of course, following common sense when his blood was up had never been Jon's strength, and Jon's rage had by all accounts been terrible indeed.

The Ironborn had apparently taken liberties with Jorelle and both raped her and beaten her, and (according to rumo u r) the raid had been led by Donnel Drumm, the second son of Dunstan Drumm. Donnel had (most likely on Jon's orders) been nailed to the mast of the ship and the six ships had raised colo u rs bearing the heraldry of House Drumm and approached Old Wyk. To their fortune (and the misfortune of the Ironborn) they had arrived at a time when most of the strength of the Ironborn was at sea, and they had fallen upon the island while it was in the middle of the night.

What few people who were out and about that night had been ruthlessly (and silently) cut down and dumped in the sea. Showing a surprisingly level head, Jon had managed to restrain himself (and the Bear Islanders) from doing to the Ironborn what the Ironborn had done to them for centuries and left a few men behind while launching a stealthy attack on Lord Drumm's small keep. The attack had been so sudden and so violent that it had been over before it began: Lord Drumm's oldest son Denys had lost his hand, Lord Drumm had been beheaded while still abed, and Jon and his Northerners had taken with them everything of value that wasn't  nailed down, including the ancestral Valyrian Steel sword Red Rain that had belonged to the Drumm's for centuries. Escaping back from whence they came, Jon and his men (and women) had torched the remaining ships in the harbo u r and fled back north.

While Lady Maege had been proud of Jon and her children (and thankful for the return of her daughter), she had scolded them severely for their rash actions, and explained the details in a very long letter to Ned that was delivered by a trusted courier.

Once he learnt of the attack he had felt something give in his stomach as he was filled with a strange mix of pride at Jon's dedication to justice, worry at his recklessness, and lastly anger at the headache he was about to receive. Denys Drumm (the new Lord of Old Wyk) had understandably complained to the King, demanding both reparations from the North, the return of his family sword, and lastly Jon's head (tales of just who had led the attack spread quickly). Fortunately, Ned had managed to smooth things over, though he would never forgive Jon for forcing him to ride south to King's Landing to speak with Robert and Jon Arryn.

Robert and Jon at the very least understood, though he had to admit he was a bit confused at the sly grins the King and the Hand shared whenever Jon was brought into a conversation. The Queen had been all for punishing Jon as harshly as possible, going so far as to demand that Jon's sword would be confiscated by the crown for the trouble Jon's actions had brought. At least Ned, Jon Arryn and Robert had been in agreement there: the boy would keep the blade. Robert had even surprised Ned by saying that the 'Ironborn cunts could shut the hell up, as according to their own traditions the boy had paid the blasted Iron Price.' It had taken a good week of quarrelling back and forth as Lord Drumm and a few fellow Ironborn had continued to make one outrageous demand after another, and it wasn't until Robert had threatened another invasion of the Iron Islands, this one with a more permanent result, that the Ironborn had left, with Ned's sympathies for their losses and a 'treaty' that wasn't worth the ink or paper it was written on that the Ironborn would stay away from the North and vice versa. Quite frankly Ned estimated that it would take at the most two moons before they would see an increase in 'pirating'.

Finally returning home in a fury, he had summoned the Lords of the North to a meeting where they would discuss the future. As always happened when the Lords of the North gathered, there was drinking, boasting, and even outright fistfights as too many Lords with more pride than sense (and a love of their own voice) all wanted to make their voices heard. It had been hard work…very hard work to finally manage to get some semblance of coherence in the proceedings but they managed eventually.

As Jon had been introduced to the Lords, he had been able to convince them of the necessity of hard work and sacrifice as he told of the raids by both Ironborn and wildlings, and recounted to roaring applause and wide grins of how he and the men and women from Bear Island had reciprocated against the Ironborn at Old Wyk, Jon gleefully showing off his greatsword Red Rain (that was aptly named as the steel was as dark red as blood). Construction of a new keep and port town on Sea Dragon Point would commence, and serve as a base for a new Northern fleet. With the Wolfswood so close it was the ideal place to make a new watch point for the North. Lord Manderly had agreed to provide the shipwrights, and every House in the North had agreed to provide one tenth of the men they had at their disposal to settle (and help build) the new western stronghold of the North. In addition, work would start to rebuild Moat Cailin and provide it with a permanent garrison.

Jon, who had been quite hono u red at allowing to stay after telling his story, had not been so pleased after, when Ned informed him that Jon's own spoils from the raid on Old Wyk would be used for this new plan, as it was due to him the measures would be taken. Had Ned not been so tired after a long night in a smoky, noisy room, he'd have been worried when Jon accepted so easily, but sadly Ned had been too tired to see the eager look in his near six-and-ten year old nephew's eyes as he asked to be excused for the night. Giving his assent Ned had retired to his own bed where Cat was already waiting for him, glad that Jon was finally shaping up to the expectations of a Stark, regardless if he carried the name or not…he should have known better.

So, looking back, Ned could see why Catelyn had been displeased with Jon. Even if the boy was not a bastard he had brought more than enough headaches along over the years. He had at least acquitted himself somewhat over the last year or so, as he had worked hard (if not eagerly) at Sea Dragon Point. The harbo u r was already done, along with most of the housing, and the keep itself was all but done, lacking only furnishing, and the curtain wall and gate around the town were coming along nicely. Under the sharp eyes of Wyman Manderly's shipwrights a full twenty warships had been finished, large doubled decked galleys: the bottom deck for the oarsmen, while the top deck held room enough for a pair of catapults and a dozen scorpions. The front of each ship held a pointy bronze ram that would gouge large holes in a ships side, including below the waterline. Lastly, the fledgling new port town held a constant garrison of a thousand armed men, who (along with the ships), had already seen much action, fending off no less than over two dozen raiding attacks, from the size of a single long ship to a large war band of perhaps a score of ships.

Receiving reports of these attacks Ned was pleased that Lord Wyman's second son Wendel was the temporary Castellan of the place, a fact that had been strictly pointed out to everyone, as Jon had wanted more than once to engage any and every raiding party that came regardless of their size. At least the boy had learnt how to cool his temper somewhat and apply his mind more tactically as more and more raids were suffered, though the raids appeared to have halted as it had been near two moons since the last reported raid. While the loss of life that resulted from each raid made them an annoyance, they were a boon as well, as the North had received over a hundred long ships as a result, and more than enough steel for their needs. Jeor Mormont was happy as the Night's Watch had been bolstered by a good two hundred men, the Northern Lords were pleased as the good steel and armo u r they confiscated was divided amongst them, and Ned was pleased as the long ships were sailed down the coast and up the Fever River, where the lightweight ships were carried across land to the White Knife and then sailed to Braavos and sold at auction, leaving more than one Northern Lord toasting the Ironborn for basically financing the entrenching of their western coast.

Of course, as always, there were downsides, and Ned was a bit distraught at how many of them could be tied solely at Jon's feet. Jon's popularity was growing across the North, his actions against the Ironborn, his skill with a sword, the brutal ferocity which with he attacked (even his…promiscuity) was quickly making the 'Bloody Wolf' as northerners started to call him into a legend in the North. And the more people spoke (or whispered) about Jon, and shot both Jon and Ned knowing grins, the more Cat raged and feared that Jon would usurp Robb. And no matter how many times Ned or Robb told her otherwise she refused to let go of her fears, and to Ned's silent fury just treated the boy all the worse.

At least Robb and Jon liked one another, treating each other as brothers as much as they could, Robb didn't lord his heritage over Jon, and Jon refrained from making Robb feel inadequate whenever martial prowess was discussed. Though Ned knew that Robb was somewhat jealous, not only with Jon's talent, but also his free spirit, doing for the most part what he wanted. Robb could do the same of course, but was far more conscious of not only his duty as heir, but was also less willing to subject himself to punishment, which was a boon to Ned, as both Arya, Bran and Rickon adored their often absentee bigger brother, whose first action whenever he came back from one of his trips was to regale them with (surely exaggerated) tales of his adventures.

Sansa had also liked these tales, that is until the one day Jon had been less than sober and shared some of the more…risqué details of his travels. Sansa, who was at that point old enough to understand how children were made, had been horrified and refused to ever hear another tale, but was still somewhat fond of her older 'brother' as many of her fellow lady friends often compared Jon to a wandering knight, keeping the North and Winterfell safe from harm and dealing out justice in the name of the King. When Ned had discovered these stories and rumo u rs it had been far too late to deal with them (to Cat's dismay) as Jon's 'heroism' and 'gallantry' was firmly fixed in their minds.

Glancing out the window for a moment Ned tried to come up with a response that would hopefully please Cat, but try as he might he failed to find a single answer that would not only please her but save Jon's hide.

"We should thank him Cat, had it not been for him, Jorelle Mormont would probably be either dead or an Ironborn saltwife. Not to mention that we would not be as strong as we are now. For centuries we've been without a fleet, and now our western coast is stronger and more prepared than it has ever been before".

Cat snarled angrily in return. "There wouldn't be a need for it if it hadn't been for the boy running off like he does, like he always does," she stressed the last two words. "Not to mention he has a bastard of his own now, the father can be no one else."

Ned knew of course what she was talking about, the wee baby girl sleeping at this time of night in a room next to Jon's. The girl's mother, a serving wench that Jon had tempted into his bed at some point had died birthing the girl, and the maid's sad father had brought the wee girl to Winterfell to ask for some small amount of coin in support so that the girl could be raised. Ned had done one better and offered to raise his 'granddaughter' in Winterfell. 'The girl is of my blood, she will stay here,' he had told the man (who already had six other mouths to feed). The man had been at the same time sad to see his granddaughter go, but also pleased that she would be taken care of.

Thinking back on the first time he laid eyes on Jon's daughter (Lyarra, the babe’s mother had named her) he felt his lips tremble slightly in a smile. It was clear that the girl was Lyanna's granddaughter, her head already holding a rather generous amount of curly raven locks even at three moons, and the grey eyes and slightly long face demonstrated her Stark traits quite well (and like Lyanna the babe a very healthy set of lungs on her). Ned might be a bit disappointed that Jon had been careless enough to father a bastard (and so close to home too), but at the same time he was somewhat pleased. If anything could calm Jon down somewhat, the prospect of fatherhood and being responsible for a little girl should do it, and while Ned was seldom one to participate in schadenfreude, he was almost looking forward to Jon discovering that he was now a father.

He gave Cat a slightly warning look (he didn't like the spite she had for Jon, and now also Jon's daughter). "We all knew that this would probably happen sooner or later…he is much like his uncle in that way," Ned said before he could think, and he suddenly felt his stomach sink as Cat's face twisted in a myriad of emotions, shock, anger, indignation and lastly horrified realization.

"That's it," she hissed suddenly as she pointed a shaking finger at him. "He's Brandon's boy! Why didn't you tell me?" and then she threw herself into Ned's horrifyingly confused arms. How she had come to that conclusion he had no idea…at least not until he thought back somewhat and things started to make sense. It was true after all; Jon was far too much like Lyanna (and by default Brandon, who had been of a similar spirit). The knowing looks and whispers that followed the boy, even the Greatjon slapping Jon on the back (nearly sending the boy to the ground) while exclaiming 'you're your father's son alright.' When Ned had overheard that comment he had been somewhat confused (an d insulted  even ), but now, if the Lords of the North thought Jon to be Brandon's boy he could understand why the Greatjon had said that.

Seizing on the golden opportunity to add another layer of deception for Jon's safety, Ned seized the moment with both hands, figuratively speaking of course. "I…I didn't want your memories of Brandon to be tainted by him being unfaithful to you," Ned said solemnly as he stroked Cat's back comfortingly as Maester Luwin stood stock still in a corner, somewhat shocked at the revelation.

"You silly man," Cat hiccupped as she wiped her tears. "I knew what sort of man Brandon was…everyone knew."

Ned winced. "I am sorry my love, can you forgive me?"

Cat kissed him softly on his lips. "I forgive you…but that doesn't mean I will develop a liking to the boy," she finished harshly.

Ned sighed. "I didn't expect you would, but could you try, for my sake, at least to treat the girl somewhat civilly, she is my only grandniece after all."

Cat closed her eyes in pain or shame or something else Ned didn't know. "I…I'll try to be better to her than I was to the…Jon, more than that I cannot promise."

Well, it was better than Ned expected at least. "Thank you… I believe Jon will thank you as well."

"Speaking of… Jon. Where is the boy?" Cat asked suddenly, causing both Ned and Luwin to furrow their brow somewhat.

Jon had left earlier that day to hunt in the Wolfswood, and usually returned around time for dinner, regardless of if he had caught something or not, and worse, Rickard Karstark, his sons and daughter would be arriving in Winterfell to sup with them and stay for a few days. It would be just Ned's luck if Jon were to arrive covered in blood, mud, and animal guts when they were entertaining guests.

A sudden pounding on the door to his solar broke Ned out of his thoughts. "Yes," he said loudly.

"Begging your pardon milord, there's…trouble in the courtyard," Donnel, the guard outside said.

"Tell me it wasn't…" Ned started to say just as Donnel continued.

"Jon and the Karstark boys got into a scrap milord."

'THUNK!' Ned groaned loudly and massaged the sides of his head in frustration after he let his forehead slam onto his desk. Of course it was Jon, there was always something to do with Jon, and regardless of how much he frustrated Ned and added grey hears on his head, he loved the boy as if he was one of his own. Resigning himself to another long and sleepless night Ned rose from his chair and walked to the courtyard with Donnel, Cat and Luwin following him. Both Rodrik and Jory Cassel joined them shortly before they entered the courtyard, and what a sight it was that met them.

Robb, Theon, Bran and Arya were all in various states of laughter or amusement, Robb and Theon being the worst, as they were all struggling to stay upright, the only thing keeping them on their feet was (to Ned's surprise) his brother Benjen, who was supporting the boys while trying his best to keep his own lips from tugging upwards in amusement.

Several of his guards were all exchanging coins, no doubt having lain wagers on something. That something became quite clear a moment later as Ned saw Jon standing in the middle of the courtyard, with the three Karstark boys, Harrion, Torrhen, and Eddard, all lying on the ground, groaning in pain, though from the state of Jon they had given him quite the fight (at least Ned assumed the bloody nose and rapidly swelling eye on Jon came from the fight). Seated on his horse was Rickard Karstark, who was red in the face, not only glaring balefully at Jon, but also with disappointment at his boys who most likely jumped Jon the moment they laid eyes on him. The reason for that became abundantly clear to Ned as he set eyes on Rickard's daughter, ('only daughter,' he reminded himself). Alys Karstark, a young woman of six-and-ten stood beside her father with a nervous look on her face, and worse in her arms Ned could see a small bundle that contained a young babe a few moons old at the most, a babe with black curly hair and, as the girl shifted her position slightly, grey eyes, Stark eyes, that belonged to the babe.

"Fuck," he said as his frustration and resignation finally boiled over. Locking his gaze at Jon, Ned was somewhat pleased to see his nephew for once in his life swallow nervously as the facts of the situation finally hit him and Ned felt a wolfish grin steal over his face. "Jon…come here," he said as he gestured for Jon who shuffled over nervously, and once again Ned was struck at How. Bloody. Similar. The boy was to Ned's deceased brother.

"Yes father," Jon said nervously as he tried to give his father a winning smile, that was not as winning as Jon probably thought, considering his bloody nose and mouth.

Ned smacked Jon hard over the back of the head as he tried to convey just how displeased he was at the current situation. "Get to my Solar and stay there," he said. "I'll deal with you… shortly."

For once in his life the boy listened and moved into the keep so swiftly that Ned almost thought he'd galloped past him on a horse. Turning his gaze back to Rickard who seemed a bit more pleased Ned gestured for his sometimes many removed kinsman to dismount and come over. "I assume you want to… deal with this in a somewhat more private setting Rickard?"

Rickard nodded. "Boys, stop bitching and get yourselves cleaned up," he barked at his sons who groaned once more in complaint. "I don't want to hear a word of it, you should have known better than to go up against the Bloody Wolf…pardon My Lord," Rickard said suddenly. The nickname was well known, but no one was foolish enough to say it in front of Ned.

"No need to worry Rickard, I am well aware of my…Jon's reputation here in the North."

Turning his gaze to the babe that was still nestled in Alys Karstark's arms Ned extended his arms. "May I?"

The girl looked nervously at her father who nodded before gently placing the babe in Ned's arms. Like Jon's daughter there was no question that the babe was fathered by Jon. The same hair, same eyes, even the silken curly locks on the babe's head pointed to Jon having had another 'adventure', and considering the age of the babe (a few moons old at the most), Ned silently cursed himself as he realized that Jon must have… 'acquainted' himself with Alys Karstark during the week the Northern Lords were all gathered in Winterfell. Naturally, such a demonstration had made the Lords bring their sons and daughters along, no doubt hoping to arrange a good marriage, and while Ned suspected that Rickard had wanted Alys to find her way to Robb's bed, he didn't seem too displeased that Alys had gotten a 'present' from Jon either, as 'Snow' or not, due to Jon's reputation he was considered a somewhat good catch in the North.

"His name is Torrhen," she said suddenly. "After my favo u rite brother." she said with a slight blush, while said brother pretended to preen in the background (causing his other two brothers to give him a slap each across the back of his head).

"Torrhen is a good name," Ned said as he gave Alys a slight smile. "It is a name fit for Kings."

"Thank you My Lord," Alys curtsied before taking her son back into her arms.

"Follow me to my Solar," Ned said. "Cat, make sure that supper is ready and get the boys and girls to clean themselves up."

Cat nodded slightly, hurrying off to start haranguing Robb and Theon, who as the eldest ones should know better than to make a spectacle of themselves, while Ned, Rickard, Alys, Luwin, Benjen and Ser Rodrik all made their way to Ned's solar where they found Jon pacing nervously back and forth.

"Take a seat everyone, you too Jon," Ned said, his words to Jon holding a rather sharper tone than those he'd said to the others. Waiting for the rest to be seated, Ned observed his nephew and tried his best to keep his face calm, even as he was laughing like King Robert on the inside: to finally have Jon, not only over the barrel, so to speak, but with a pack of hungry hounds surrounding him, Ned felt that perhaps Lyanna's ghost had decided to give him a reprieve for whatever he had done to her to make her punish him by providing him with a baby boy of Jon's type.

"Well Jon…do you have anything to say to yourself?" Ned asked sharply, causing Jon to tear his somewhat dazed faced away from the sight of the babe that was nestled in Alys' arms.

"Umm…" Jon's face was scrunched up in concentration, trying to come up with a decent explanation.

"If you lay with enough girls some will give you presents boy," Ser Rodrik said with vindictive pleasure, the old knight never having quite forgiven Jon for his former…dalliance with his daughter.

Alys blushed slightly at Rodrik's words, while Jon glared sullenly back at Rodrik. Rickard, much like Ned, had experience enough to keep his face calm, but from the way his eyes shone he was just as amused as Ned was. Benjen had no such compunctions and was sniggering openly in the background.

"Rickard, do you have anything to say?" Ned asked.

"I don't want to seem… greedy Ned, but I had been in the process of arranging a marriage between Alys and young Daryn of Hornwood, but thanks to my daughter and your, ah, 'son' I do not quite know what to do… she refuses to give up the babe, and I don't have the heart to force her either."

Ned nodded thoughtfully, though he did narrow his eyes slightly at Rickard's overt questioning of Jon's parentage. It was sad that Rickard's plan for a good marriage to the girl had been foiled, but perhaps it was still salvageable, and if anything, could get Jon on the straight and narrow path it would have to be the combination of marriage and fatherhood.

"I may have a suggestion," Ned said. "Though I need to speak with you in private, Rickard."

Rickard nodded and settled in his seat as the other inhabitants of the Solar disappeared, with the exception of Benjen who Ned allowed to stay, thinking that perhaps it would be for the best to let Benjen in on the 'secret' of Jon's parentage as well.

"I assume you know who the boy's father really is Rickard?" asked Ned a moment later.

Rickard laughed. "I would say that 'Brandon's bastard' is the worst kept secret in the North." he said, causing Benjen's eyes to widen for a moment before he slapped a hand to his forehead, no doubt connecting the same clues everyone else had… and coming to the wrong conclusion.

"Here is what I propose, in return for both you and Jon waiving Jon's claim to Winterfell before any of my own sons, I will write to Robert and have him legitimize Jon, and Jon will wed Alys."

Both Rickard and Benjen looked somewhat shocked at this. Ned knew of course that Cat would demand that both Sansa and Arya come before Jon, but as much as he loved his daughters, he'd rather have Jon as Lord of Winterfell before Sansa and Arya, especially as both girls would be bombarded by Gods know how many men intent on fetching such a prize.

"Where will they live?" Rickard asked. "I could I suppose provide them with a small holdfast but…"

Ned held up a hand to stop him. "I am in need of a Lord to take permanent residence in Moat Cailin, and there are few in the North better suited than Jon to keep an eye on the south".

"And threaten the Freys," Rickard laughed. "How is the Moat coming along?" he asked.

"The old wooden bailey on the central hill has been torn down and a slightly smaller one of stone has been raised in its place. The three surrounding towers have been repaired, while another two have been raised. The gatehouse has been improved upon and a new set of outer walls are coming along, with two more towers as well. It should be finished within another year… or so the builders tell me." Ned said to the surprise of Benjen, who had not been informed about the fortifying of the North that had been going on for the last year.

"Have you thought on what they'll live from?" Benjen asked suddenly. Moat Cailin and its domain held large areas of land, but much of it was unusable swamps, bogs and marshes, the people living in the 'habitable' land were for the most part fishermen or potato farmers.

Ned smiled in return. "Our increasingly regular trips to Braavos to sell off Ironborn long sips led to the Manderly's discovering a new type of food from a Yitish trader: rice they call it. Apparently the northern parts of the marshland of Moat Cailin are perfect for growing it. I've already arranged for a shipment of rice and men from Yi-Ti, who will settle and show our farmers how to grow it. From what I've heard, the development of rice fields will require little work, and it is also easy to make food out of, as like potatoes, one needs only boil it in water… depending on how much of the marshes can be reworked into rice fields, and with our increase in building small fishing sloops, the North may become more or less self-sufficient with regards to food, even during winter as apparently rice can easily be stored for long periods of time."

Both Rickard and Benjen seemed quite pleased at that notion. "Depending on the harvest, and if we can manage to sell it to the southerners-" Rickard nearly spat the word out. "-they can make a good amount of coin as well."

"Exactly," Ned nodded. "So I assume you will accept my offer?"

Rickard nodded eagerly. "Of course Ned, I'd be happy to have Alys wed your so-nephew," he grinned slightly as he caught himself.

"There is… one last thing," Ned said as he rubbed the back of his neck, "Just a few days ago we took in a child… Jon's child by a serving maid here in Winterfell," Ned figured it was best to just tell the truth as quickly as possible.

Benjen gave a loud cough as he tried to avoid laughing while Rickard blanched a bit before furrowing his eyebrows. "Considering the boy's father… I cannot say I am surprised," Rickard said slowly. "From what I've heard about the boy I'm surprised he doesn't have more."

Both Ned and Benjen chuckled at this, Ned because he knows how Jon is, and Benjen because he had received more than one letter from Ned, so he knew more than enough himself. "As much as it pains me to say it, Jon is his father's son, and he probably does have more out there, we just don't know about them."

Rickard nodded thoughtfully. "One bastard from before he was wed or even betrothed can be forgiven, but I will not be pleased if he dishono u rs my daughter from this point on, they are now betrothed and to be wed soon."

"Oh you have my guaranties that Jon will not dishono u r your daughter Rickard," Ned said coldly. "I'll make damn sure that he does not." Just how he would accomplish this he didn't know yet, but he'd find a way, he must find a way.

This was apparently good enough for Rickard who first shook Ned's hand and then bowed respectfully, distant kin they may be, and friends beside, but Ned was still his Liege Lord and hono u r dictated that the proper rites be observed at the fulfilment of a deal. "Well, shall we go tell Jon and Alys the good news?"

The reaction he got was a bit mixed. Rickard seemed pleased as pie, while Benjen was sniggering at the idea of Jon being chained in marriage. He loved the boy, but he knew that with all the headaches he had caused Ned (and worried fathers) over the years, there was no other boy in the North more deserving of being wedded off to a wife that according to Rickard would not only chop his balls off if he dishono u red her, but also had three older brothers, and a rather fierce great uncle, (who himself had two sons and three grandsons), none of whom would be pleased if Jon decided to continue to imitate his father or King Robert.

Soon enough Alys and Jon, who was holding little Torrhen in his arms, entered, and both Ned and Benjen were quite smug at seeing Jon finally being brought low. Send him up against wildlings or Ironborn or even wild dangerous animals and Jon would just grin, laugh and cut them down, but confront him with his own child and he was suddenly turned into a domesticated little pup.

Waiting for Jon and Alys to take their seats, Rickard took his grandson from Jon's arms just in case. "Congratulations Jon," Ned said with a slight smile. "You'll be wed to Alys at the start of the next moon."

Alys at least got over her shock quickly, her slightly widened eyes turning smug while a pleased smile stretched across her face while Jon stiffened in shock, gazing back and forth between the other occupants in the room. Seeing that Jon was incapable of words at the moment Ned continued.

"I'll write to Robert to have you and your son legitimized, after your wedding you'll be given Moat Cailin as your seat."

Jon's mouth opened and closed on its own account, no words coming forth, and Ned felt warmth fill him as for the first time since Jon was still a little boy tears actually appeared in his eyes. It was the first time he had seen tears of happiness on Jon, who despite the fact that he lived life to the fullest, had always harbo u red some resentment towards his status as a bastard, and had probably spent his entire life hoping to truly be a Stark. Jon was quick to recover however, and Ned felt a flutter of worry rise in him as a dastardly grin stretched across Jon's face.

"Thank you father, you have no idea how much this means to me… but you do realize that you are the one who have to inform Lady Stark of this don't you?"

Ned felt ice creep up his spine, he hadn't thought about it too much, knowing his wife would not be happy about it, but just how unhappy she would be he hadn't contemplated. "Oh fuck!"

**AN: This idea has been toying with me for a long time so I had to get a draft down. I intend to continue this as well as my other GoT/ASoIaF story. Speaking of that other story I currently have about 2k words written, and it is coming along slowly but surely. I am also in the need of a beta, so if anyone is willing please give me a pm.**

**Do tell me if you like this, and if you want me to continue it along with my other story. One last thing, I am for the most part using the GOT timeline instead of that of the books, so Jon is seventeen and Alys is sixteen at the end of this chapter here. The 'main events' of the show/books will start roughly three months after this. I will be using some mix between the books and show, everyone aged up due to the longer time between the rebellion and 'current events', Dany is NOT fireproof (one of the things I disliked most about the show) Jorah the Andal is still Lord Friendzone, Baelish is Baelish…a huge cocksucking douchebag IMO. Sansa…I don't have anything to say about the actress, but I find her in both the books and the show to be one of the most naïve girls out there, and along with Cat and Petyr did a splendid job in getting her father killed. Also, mooning so hardcore over the shitstain called Joffrey that even someone with a huge crush should be able to spot was a douchebag and taking his side instead of her own sister…unforgivable.**

**Cat, in the show she was quite kind actually in how she behaved towards Jon, especially in comparison as to how she treated him in the books (like telling Ned that as soon as he left for Kings Landing, Jon would be out on his own with his thumb up his arse). Still not sure if I want to have 'Faegon' involved in this, as the story will for the most part revolve around Jon and the fight of the North against the Lannisters and their toerags (IE: power-hungry Tyrells)**

***SIGH* Rant over.**

**And a big thanks to Tallman7 who has agreed to become my new beta.**

**Read and review**

**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys**

 

**PS: To everyone out there, this is Tallman7. I've agreed to act beta reader for Manowarrior's stories, starting with this one. If parts of this look different than you remember, it's because I tweaked them slightly.**

**I’ve started up a patreon account of my own. Don’t worry, all my works will still be uploaded on both FFN and AO3 for free perusal. But if anyone wants to support me feel free. I will also take commissions.**

**Patreon link; https://www.patreon.com/Daemon_Belaerys**

  
**In addition I have started my own Discord server where anyone and everyone are welcome to join and discuss my works or just chat. Only rule for my discord is to keep politics out of discussions.**

** Discord link; https://discord.gg/u87TVbk **


	2. The King Rides North

**Disclaimer: ASoIaF/GoT belongs to George RR Martin and HBO, I'm merely playing in their sandbox.**

**Kings Landing, 297 AC. Robert Baratheon.**

"Your Grace."

Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm looked up from the heavily laden plate of roasted boar in front of him, his hand making an instinctive move towards the goblet of wine near his left hand. Before him stood the Hand of the King Jon Arryn, a man who had been more of a father to Robert than his own had ever been, as well as that effeminate spider Varys, Master of Whispers a relic from the time of the blasted Aerys II Targaryen. Truthfully if it wasn't for the fact that the eunuch was so damn effective Robert would have had him removed ages ago. The last man there almost caused Robert to swear loudly. His grim, sullen brother Stannis was also there, looking as forbidding as ever.

"What is it Jon?" Robert sighed as he gestured for his squire Lancel Lannister to fill his goblet with more wine, _'Lancel, pah. Golden haired shit,'_ he thought to himself.

"A letter from Ned."

That certainly got Robert's attention. He hadn't spoken much to his friend Ned since the Greyjoy Rebellion, with the exception of that moment when his bastard boy gave the Drumms a fucking bloody nose a few years ago. How Robert had laughed at that. His bitch of a wife had wanted the boy killed and the Valyrian steel sword he'd taken seized, no doubt so she could give the sword to Joffrey or her fucking father. But Robert had just laughed, the sheer nerve and audacity of the then four-and-ten or five-and-ten year old boy to take five ships of men and women and fuck the Ironborn right up the arse during the night was too fucking funny to punish him for, and never failed to give Robert the chuckles and make him wish he could just saddle his horse, pick up his hammer and ride out to kill something.

"What's gotten you in a tiff Stannis?" Robert asked suddenly as he saw Stannis looking surlier than usual when the letter was mentioned.

Stannis threw the letter onto Robert's desk, causing Robert to raise his eyebrows in surprise: the letter was torn in half. "I was on my way to post a letter to my wife when I spotted Pycelle," he spat the name out, "tear the letter in half. I was intrigued and demanded the letter to be turned over. He tried to refuse so I had two of my guards hold him while I took the letter and then threw him in the dungeon."

Robert closed his eyes in preparation for the headache to come. Pycelle was another Lannister lickspittle and also a relic from Aerys' time. He had once asked the Citadel for a new Grandmaester, but they had refused him. Perhaps now he'd have the chance to finally be rid of the old fucker.

"ROBERT!" And there was his wife the fucking Queen. Robert sighed as Cersei approached. "Do you know what your brother has done?" Cersei demanded as she stomped into the room, her face twisted in fury.

"Stannis did exactly what he should have done," he barked back at Cersei. He had not yet consumed as much wine as he regularly did, and so was actually in the mood for a fight for once. "Stannis came across Pycelle ripping up a letter sent to me. READING the King's mail from one of his Wardens without permission is sufficient enough grounds to have his head for treason, and he also chose to rip the letter apart and try to hide it. KINGSLAYER!" he yelled to the Queen's brother who stood guard outside his rooms, causing the smug bastard to enter. "Escort your fucking sister back to her chambers, I don't want her in my sight".

Fuck it was pleasing to watch the Kingslayer drag his fucking wife away while she almost foamed at the mouth in fury and yelled after him. Picking up the pieces of the letter and trying his best to focus on the scrawny letters he suddenly spat a mouthful of wine all over his desk (and his displeased brother) before laughing uproariously.

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan, who stood guard inside his chambers, questioned.

"It seems like Ned's little bastard has gotten himself a bastard or two of his own," Robert sniggered as he pounded a meaty fist on his desk. "He requests that I legitimize the boy and the boy's son."

The others were silent as they digested the news.

"He intends for the boy to marry some Karstark girl apparently," Robert explained at the questioning glances he received. Taking another sip Robert stood up suddenly. "Well that decides it, I gotta see this myself. Stannis you'll stay here in King's Landing with the Kingslayer," Robert almost crowed at the displeased look Stannis gave him, there was no love between those two. "Jon, you and me are going North."

"Robert?" Jon questioned as he furrowed his brow.

"What?" Robert said as he spread his arms. "It's Ned's son that's getting married, he named the boy after you for fucks sake. We're going and that is final."

Jon sighed, no doubt the prospect of both the Hand and the King leaving the capital did not sit well with him.

"Oh and make sure to send a letter to the Citadel for a new Grandmaester. Pycelle is taking the black after all."

"Robert," Jon said warningly.

"No Jon, the man committed treason, and make sure to let the Citadel know that the next Grandmaester better keep his nose to himself… and arrange for a permanent guard of the ravenry, men we can trust. Gods know how much of my correspondence the old goat has read before."

Sighing Jon nodded before trotting off, no doubt his old foster father had a thousand things to deal with before they left. A good man, no doubt, and Robert loved him for it, but damn if the man didn't worry.

"You'll serve as regent while I am away Stannis, and don't fuck it up."

"Of course Your Grace," Stannis said before he too walked off, suddenly leaving Robert alone with Varys and Ser Barristan. Lancel, the fucking boy had probably run off before Robert could divert some of his temper towards him.

"A curious gesture, for Lord Stark to want his son to be legitimized after all this time," Barristan said as he rubbed his chin, causing Varys to let out an involuntary titter.

"What?" Robert asked the spymaster.

"I am surprised that you haven't heard the rumor Your Grace," Varys said.

Robert and Barristan both furrowed their brows. "What rumor?"

"At first I didn't put much stock in them, but the timeframe fits, especially when coupled with his looks and behavior".

Robert growled. Why couldn't anyone in the entire fucking city speak plainly?

"The boy is Lord Stark's nephew, not his son."

Time stood still for Robert a moment as he suddenly imagined Lyanna having a boy, but as soon as that horrible thought hit him he remembered the boy's previous actions and it all made sense. He was obviously Brandon's spawn by some wench or other that the former Heir to Winterfell had bedded.

"I have not been able to find out who the mother is but I have my suspicions." Varys continued, and Robert saw a shadow sneak over Barristan's face.

"Ashara Dayne." Ser Barristan said hoarsely and Robert felt a moment of kinship with Barristan. Barristan had been as much in love with Ashara Dayne as Robert had been with Lyanna.

"I was under the impression that Ashara Dayne had given birth to a daughter, stillborn wasn't she?" asked Barristan.

Robert shook his head. "Unsubstantiated rumors. They met at Harrenhall, and must have obviously gone farther than one would think," Robert said with a small grin. "It also explains why Ned claimed the boy as his own."

"What do you mean Your Grace?" Barristan asked.

Robert looked at Barristan for a moment. "You may not know Ned like I do Barristan, but do you honestly think Ned to be one who would speak ill of the dead?"

"No Your Grace," Barristan said as he shook his head.

"Exactly, Brandon was already betrothed to Catelyn Tully when he put the boy into Lady Dayne's belly, and trust me, Ned is the sort of man who would have no problem telling his wife that he had fathered a bastard rather than to besmirch his brother's name," Robert shook his head in fond remembrance, it was after all a typical Ned thing to do. "Come Barristan," Robert said suddenly, "I'll be damned if I don't give Brandon's boy a kingly gift."

Barristan shook his head slightly, no doubt amused at Robert's suddenly high spirits as they made their way out of the Red Keep and walked down to the street of steel to find a suitable wedding gift.

"We can't get him a sword, the boy's already got Valyrian steel," Robert said to Barristan as he looked at an impressive warhammer that was displayed outside on of the shops.

"Perhaps some piece of armor Your Grace?" Barristan said. "Tobho Mott certainly has the best pieces," he pointed out the shop that was but a few yards away.

Robert nodded, Tobho might as well be a highwayman with the prices he collected, he was also an honorable man, not taking a single penny above what his work was worth, and the work he did explained why he was able to afford to set his prices so high. Besides, there were some advantages to being the King. Walking into the shop Robert was met with a lovely sight. Armor and weapons of all shapes and sizes, intricate plate, sturdy mail, lethal pieces of steel that looked to be more at home on a wall than in a man's hand, yet he knew that every single piece of steel in the shop would do its job better than most other pieces of castle forged steel in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Your Grace," Mott said as he stepped forward, bowing slightly as he did. "You honor me by visiting my humble store."

Robert and Barristan both snorted. Tobho's store was not only the largest of its kind, but also the only one on the Street of Steel to have a full two floors. "I find myself in need of some armor," Robert said.

"Of course Your Grace," Mott bowed again before turning towards a door at the back from where the sound of steel hammering on steel sounded. "BOY! Get out here."

As the door opened Robert almost felt his world spin as one of Mott's apprentices stepped out. It was like looking at a mirror into the past. The boy was tall, very tall for his age, almost comparable to Robert's own height. His bare arms were corded by muscles, earned from painstaking hours of hammering steel into shape, his thick black hair had a thin sheen of sweat that also covered his slightly soot stained face, and a pair of storm blue orbs stared back at him.

"Your Grace," boy stuttered slightly before bowing low.

"You have a name boy?" Robert asked weakly. He knew he had bastards out there of course, little Mya in the vale, though he supposed she wasn't so little any longer, and Edric at Storm's End, who he had fathered on a Florent girl in Stannis' own marriage bed, but never had he seen one of his bastard children almost grown into adulthood, and the resemblance was frightening. Had the boy been wearing fine clothes and sporting a finely trimmed beard he could have passed as a twin to Renly.

"Gendry, Your Grace," the boy said.

"Hmm," Robert nodded slightly. "And what will you do once you've finished your apprenticeship?"

The boy shrugged casually, causing Mott to slap him over the head.

"There is little else I can teach the boy Your Grace, I just keep him here as he does good work, better than any of my other boys at least."

Robert nodded again, before a glimmer of a bright idea crept up on him. If Cersei ever found the boy he'd probably be in trouble, and without any coin of his own he stood no chance of opening his own smithy. "I'm leaving for the North later this very day, you'll be coming with me."

The boy's eyes widened, ' _no, Gendry_ ,' he reminded himself.

"Your Grace?" he asked in wonder.

"The son of my friend Lord Stark is to wed and become Lord of his own castle. He'll need a smith, and if you're half as good as your Master you'll be set for life."

Gendry's eyes almost shone, so happy and awed was he at his luck. "Th-thank you Your Grace."

Robert waved away Gendry's words, it would do the boy no favors to tell him he was the bastard son of a King, but at least he could make sure the boy had a future, far away from any Lannisters. Turning back to Mott who seemed somewhat pleased Robert rubbed his hands. "Now, about that armor."

Mott turned to Robert again. "Follow me Your Grace, if the boy is a Stark I think I have just the thing."

Now curious Robert and Barristan followed Mott up the stairs to the second floor and eventually stopped in front of a suit of armor that had a light layer of dust on it, but seemed to be in otherwise pristine condition. "Another Stark ordered the set from me sometime before the Rebellion, but he never picked it up."

Robert and Barristan's faces darkened, there could be only two people who matched that description, and looking closer at the armor and taking note of the size Robert was sure that it had been made for Brandon's somewhat larger bulk, as his father Rickard had been a smaller man than his sons.

The cuirass still had a shine to it, despite the dust, and the raised edges were shaped so that it seemed as a snarling direwolf was prepared to jump out and take a bite at you. Every edge was banded by bronze that had been riveted into place, and various runes had been carefully engraved on every piece. The knuckle guards on the gauntlets continued past the fingers in the shape of claws and as Robert ran a finger along the underside of one of the claws he swore as he cut himself on the sharp edge. Last was a helmet, shaped as the head of a snarling direwolf that gave even Robert a few chills at how lifelike it seemed, from the sharp teeth that Mott had manage to somehow color white, to the almost glowing amber that had been set into the 'eyes' of the helmet. Other parts of the armor had also been colored in various shades of grey, white, and black to mimic the coloring of a wolf, only the cuirass itself retaining the silvery sheen of perfectly forged steel, and at that moment Robert knew he had to get it. Brandon's boy had lived his entire life as a bastard, not knowing who his true father was, not knowing his mother… it was the least Robert could do.

"How much?" he asked Mott.

"Oh no Your Grace," Mott shook his head. "The armor is already paid for, and since you are taking it to the owner's family I couldn't possibly charge you."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "What are you playing at Mott?" he asked suspiciously.

Mott gave a sly grin. "If Your Grace was to have a large retinue of Knights or Lords with you when you collect the armor, and told others who ask where you got it…"

"Then you would receive a fair amount of increased business," Robert finished with a grin. "Very well, have the boy and the armor ready for later today, I'll be leaving shortly after midday."

Winterfell. 297 AC. Jon:

It had been two days since Jon's life took on an abrupt change. First the shock of learning that he was a father. That had a son by Alys Karstark was shocking enough, but that he also had a daughter, from a woman whose name he could not even recall to his shame, was even more so. He was to be married, legitimized and made to be a Lord of his own castle; it was all too much for him.

He had waited for the rest of the castle to fall asleep before riding out into the Wolfswood to hunt, and to think. As he rode swiftly between the trees he let his mind wander. All his life it seemed, ever since he learnt what it meant to be a bastard, he decided to rise above it and take what pleasures he could in life. He'd been a free spirit.

Take his sword and axe and ride off for a few days? Sure, what duties did he have that bound him to Wintefell? He had always had a temper (much like his aunt and uncle, he'd been told). As a boy that had been solved easily enough by going out into the practice yard and beat the stuffing out of a practice dummy with whatever 'weapon' he could get his hands on. He'd started doing that regularly after his fifth year, and Robb joined him soon enough, though at Lady Stark's insistence Robb was given the more 'formal' education.

Ser Rodrik and his nephew Jory spent far more time teaching Robb the nuances of swordplay, how to stand, how to move his feet, how to use a blade or keep a cool head, not that Jon minded. Rodrik and Jory thought him more than enough, but whereas Robb was certainly a more technical or tactical swordsman, Jon was more akin to a force of nature. Little finesse, but rather raw and sudden fury.

Jon would be the first to acknowledge that Robb was far better than he when it came to using a sword and shield, but that was Robb's way. He was more cautious, and patient enough to fight defensively while waiting for an opening, Jon was the opposite, hurling himself on his opponent with either a greatsword in hand, or a longsword and axe combination, and the two brothers found that it worked. Robb was the shield, and one day, Jon would be his sword, the Bloody Wolf to be unleashed upon Robb's foes.

Their relationship cooled ever so slightly when Theon Greyjoy was brought back to Winterfell after their father had gone to war. The Greyjoy was five years their senior and quickly earnt himself a place amongst Robb's list of favorite people. While Jon didn't like it, he understood. At five years older than them, Theon was somewhat exciting as he was more experienced in life, bigger and the like. Truth be told, if he hadn't tried to assert his dominance over Jon and treat Jon as scum simply for being a bastard, then Jon would probably count Theon as a friend to the same degree Robb did.

Alas, Jon was a bastard and as such he was beneath Theon, at least according to Theon himself. Jon had quickly (and viciously) tried to remedy that belief by facing the five years' older boy in the practice ring. The end result was a broken nose and cracked arm for Theon, a half-hearted warning from his father, and a lot of approving grins from other residents in Winterfell. Theon… well Theon had never forgiven Jon for showing him up, so they had for the most part stayed away from each other. As they aged, Robb spent more and more time with Theon as Jon refused to stay long around the young kraken, and Jon spent more time by himself, or with his younger sister Arya who apparently had decided that Jon was the 'bestest brother in the world.'

Of course people change. Jon grew bigger and started to notice different things. Hair started to grow in unusual places, his voice turned deeper and his shoulders started to broaden. He woke up to things getting 'harder' and overnight it seemed that girls had become the most fascinating creatures in the world.

While he had never truly discussed the subject of girls with his father, he had learned more than enough from various whispers or suggestions from other conversations to know that girls could make life very pleasant for a young man, and he had eagerly stepped up to the challenge.

As the cold had never bothered him much, he had no problem dressing up in a bit less clothing than he usually did, often wearing shirts that showed off his arms, and he also gradually shifted his place of sparring from the practice yard (where he had to share space with others) to his own little practice are outside the walls of Winterfell. It became a regular occurrence for giggling young maidens to follow him and watch from some distance away as he removed the clothes covering his torso as he worked himself into a sweat with the sword or axe.

He had been almost three-and-ten, just about a man grown he reckoned due to his bastardry, when he first stuck his cock into another woman. It was so good, and awkward, over way to quickly and much too exciting to let it be a one-time occurrence. Fortunately, the girl he had lain with had been understanding enough to realize that it was his first time, so she had taken the time to explain things further, and as they say, practice makes perfect as more than one girl could attest to.

He knew of course that fucking girls could result in his very own bastard, but somehow he had just never acknowledged it. Surely it wouldn't happen with him? And by the time he started to use his head for more than just deciding upon which woman he'd stick his cock into next it was apparently too late. Barely ten-and-seven and already he was a father twice over. He considered himself fortunate that his son with Alys would at least have the Stark name, and he'd make damn sure that his daughter wouldn't be treated as anything less than just that, his daughter… provided Alys was not a stuck up prickly bitch like Lady Stark, though he doubted it. Bastards weren't exactly something to be proud of in the North, but unlike with how it was in the south they weren't seen as sinful abominations either, which was already loads better than how Lady Stark had seen and treated him. Should things become too bad he could always foster the girl on Bear Island, as Jon knew Lady Maege would have no problem taking her in, and neither would Lyra or Jorelle mind.

And now he was to marry and become a Lord. He sighed. He didn't mind the idea of wedding Alys, far from it. Alys was a very beautiful young woman, tall like himself, long dark-brown hair that she kept in a single thick braid, a long face with elegant cheekbones and grey-blue eyes. She was perhaps a bit skinnier than many men would prefer, but her full teats were enough to make any man drool (he should know considering how he'd ravaged them the time they fucked each other), she had proven to be able to birth children, and lastly she had an old and respectable name. Alys Karstark was perhaps one of the best brides available in the North in his age bracket, and she would be his.

Still, the idea of being trapped in matrimony to a single woman for the rest of his life was not something Jon had ever imagined, though he never imagined that he would become a Lord or a father either, so perhaps it was for the better. His father and uncle certainly seemed to think so, and Jon could see their point.

While he had participated (for the most part) in Robb's lessons over the years, he was still far from ready to truly take up a Lordship, he was still too wild, too fond of simply saddling his horse and ride off to somewhere, not to mention that he enjoyed a good scrap and it had been some time since he last had a really good one. So again it was a good thing he was wedding Alys.

He knew her well enough from the week she had stayed at Winterfell during the meeting of the Lords to know that, while she had a sense of duty when it came to marriage, she was not a meek little southron flower who would sit back and whimper and bawl if her husband dishonored her. As soon as his father had told him he was wedding Alys he knew that his life of… liberty was at an end. If Alys ever found him in another woman's bed he knew damn well that she'd cut off his cock and feed it to him raw.

She knew how to run a household, and while sensible enough about her duties to not disagree with him in public, he knew that she should be able (and probably would) council him in private, though for Jon it was still too soon. One moon from now? He hadn't even fully digested the fact that he had a son and a daughter before his father told him that shortly after he would be married and a Lord.

Looking around him he saw nothing but trees, pine, elm, oak and even the rare ironwood scattered here and there. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath as he let the scents and sounds of the forest to fill him. Jon's closest held secret was that he 'knew' there was something to the whole 'wolf's-blood' saying. Or perhaps it was the blood of Winter Kings. Either way, he was… different from other men.

He was more in touch with the North than any other he had heard about, and shared a strange kinship with the North and its dwellers. His senses were far sharper than should be possible, and in moments like this, surrounded by the wildness of the North and with his blood up, his gaze could pierce that gloom of night without effort. He could smell where a trio of forest mice had crossed not six feet away from his two days past, could hear the soft steps of the large wolf stalking him.

Widening his eyes he threw himself from the saddle and narrowly avoided the giant direwolf from tearing his head off. Calmly rolling to his feet he drew his dagger as he remained crouched, ready for any eventuality. His horse however was not so calm and fled in full panic, taking his sword with it, leaving Jon all alone with nothing more than his fists and a dagger, hardly comforting when standing face to face with a beast that was almost as big as his horse.

The direwolf itself was snarling at him, teeth longer than his fingers almost shone in the moonlight, ready to tear him apart. Like he had done with countless other animals (mostly birds, cats or dogs), Jon pushed out with his mind as he gazed into the amber eyes of the wolf. He grunted as his head suddenly rang like it did whenever Rodrik Cassel managed to clip him over the head with a tourney blade, and it was mere instinct that saved him as he weakly dodged to the left, losing his grip on his dagger as the jaws of the direwolf snapped down a few shy inches from his right arm.

With his head clear again Jon leapt onto the back of the direwolf and locked his powerful arms around its neck and squeezed. The mighty beast growled, yipped, jumped, twisted, bucked and rolled, trying as best it could to shake Jon off but eventually it lost its strength and collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily as it did.

Jon let go and grabbed his dagger, intending to finish the animal before it could summon back its strength, only to stall as the wolf let out a painful whine as it locked its gaze with Jon, and Jon could suddenly understand why the mighty animal had braved coming all the way down south.

The belly of the wolf was swollen, but he could also spot from the slightly emaciated frame of the wolf that most of whatever food it had gotten had been spent to keep the pups inside of her alive. Digging into his satchel Jon took out a handful of dried jerky. As soon as his hand got close the wolf snarled and snapped at his hand, causing him to withdraw it. It took several attempts before the wolf allowed him to offer it food or pet its fur, but in the end he considered it a triumph.

The wolf was skeptical of him, but at least trusted him enough not to eat him, and also trusted him enough that he could pet it. The wolf particularly enjoyed it when he rubbed her head or scratched her ears, her tail making a 'thump-thump' sound as it wagged back and forth, hitting the ground now and then. He attempted to connect with the animal again, going much softer this time. He was wary: after all, the head of the direwolf was in his lap and could easily bite his head off if it so chose, but other than a few warning growls whenever his mind touched upon her far more primal one, nothing happened until he could finally slip from his skin and into hers.

Like any animal, the first time you slip into the mind of a direwolf was a confusing and mind boggling moment as you are bombarded with different smells, sounds, and even instincts. Jon had learnt enough from Old Nan's stories to know that he was a Warg, someone who could slip in to the mind of an animal, yet the old tales weren't even close to describing how amazing the sensation was.

Once you bonded with an animal you 'became' part of it forever. To this day Jon could close his eyes and correctly point in the direction where his faithful crow that he had first domesticated when he was ten. The crow that he had named 'Beak' shouldn't even have lived this long, but still it did, perhaps due to being a part of Jon. It would come when he asked, could understand his commands, and he could slip into its mind from quite some distance away. Like a few other crows, it was even capable of speaking a few words, though Jon was certain that he must have tried to teach it when he was drunk, as Beak's favorite word by far was 'Ale'.

Reveling in the sensation of being inside the direwolf, he was pleased to note that as he spent time, caressing its mind with his own, the wolf shifted its instincts towards him from 'friend' to 'pack'. While the she-wolf would always be her own creature, she would also be loyal to him, as he would be to her, like a pack should be. Looking down at her, she was mostly white, with some grey or brown scattered through her fur, no doubt to better fit in into the much harsher climates beyond the wall. "I'll call you Winter," Jon said as he closed his eyes and lowered his face towards her muzzle, quickly breaking into laughter as the wet and rough tongue of the wolf started to lick all over him.

The joyous moment ceased abruptly as the sky suddenly opened and a torrential downpour of water started. "Shite," he mumbled as he and Winter got to their feet and started to trek back towards Winterfell. If he was lucky his father would send men after him, but considering how many times in the past Jon had ridden off during the night he wouldn't count on it.

Rarely had he ever been as pleased as he was now that cold didn't affect him as much as it did others. His riding leathers were completely soaked and clung to his flesh and the biting wind didn't help much either. Fortunately, the downpour didn't last very long; perhaps an hour or two, so he was almost dry when he finally saw Winterfell in the distance. "You ready for this?" he asked Winter as he studied the wolf that was perhaps a head shorter than he was. The wolf gave him a piercing look before bumping his head with her own and a long wet lick across his face, causing him to laugh slightly. "Then let's go," he said as he started to walk briskly towards Wintefell, the direwolf at his side.

It took longer than he'd expected to reach Winterfell, though he shouldn't have been surprised that it took longer without his horse. It was past midday when he came to the edges of Winter Town, where more than one man or woman gasped or pointed and whispered when they saw 'The Bloody Wolf' walk calmly along with a giant direwolf at his side.

"What the…?" Jon heard one of the guardsmen manning the gatehouse say.

"Call for Lord Stark, Snow is back!" another called.

"What's the lad done this time?" Jon could hear from behind the wall, much to the amusement of several other guardsmen who broke out into laughter.

With the gate (and the courtyard on the other side) now firmly in sight, Jon put on his best grin as he sped up his stride, Winter walking next to him with her ears twitching this way and that to take in all the new sounds.

"Yeh got tae be shittin' me!" Rogg, one of the guardsmen standing by the open gates said as he laid eyes on Winter.

Jon smirked as he ruffled Winter's head for a moment. "I found this one in the woods," Jon said.

"What has the boy done- BY THE FUCKING GODS!" Rodrik Cassel had apparently gone to check up on Jon only to lay eyes on the direwolf by his side.

Walking through the gates and into the courtyard Jon could spot his father, uncle Benjen, Robb, Bran and Arya as well as Alys, her brothers and father. As soon as his father laid eyes on Winter he sighed and buried his face in his hands. "Why do you do this to me Jon?" he said, exasperation clear in his voice.

Looking over at the assembled people Jon decided to try and mend bridges with Alys, who couldn't have been pleased that his first action after finding out they were to wed was to run off without word. Walking over to her be bowed low and took her hand gently.

"I apologize sincerely if I offended you by leaving My Lady, it was not my intent to give you insult," he gave her a winning smile before placing a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

"Should have thought of that before he took her to his bed." her eldest brother Harrion grumbled, his black eye quite prominent on his face.

Alys looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before she caused most of the people in the courtyard to gasp as she delivered a painful smack to his cheek. The exceptions were his uncle his and her siblings, who sniggered or grinned at seeing Jon in trouble with the ladies for once. "I assume you won't run out on me again once we are wed My Lord?" she asked pointedly with a raised eyebrow.

Jon grimaced as he rubbed his red cheek, she was certainly stronger than she looked. "I will endeavor not to My Lady." he said as he tried his best to ignore the grins of the people around him.

"And who is this?" she asked as she pointed at Winter who was sitting calmly on the ground, with Jon holding a steadying hand on the scruff of her neck.

"This is Winter." Jon said as he took her hand in his right and led her over to the wolf, who then sniffed cautiously at Alys. 'She is pack, Winter,' Jon thought as he focused on Winter, trying to share a feeling of belonging at the wolf who tilted her head to the side before nuzzling her muzzle into Alys' hand.

Alys giggled slightly as she scratched the wolf behind the ears, causing it to whine in pleasure and close its eyes. "She will not be sleeping in our bed," Alys said suddenly causing Jon to laugh slightly.

"As you wish My Lady." he said, holding out his arm to her. "Shall we?"

Alys smiled slightly as she took his arm. "We shall." Then he, Alys, and Winter walked into the keep, smiling at the dumbfounded looks of the others.

** *L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R **

Just shy of a moon later the time for his and Alys' wedding was nearing. His father had informed him that the King himself would even be attending, as would the majority of the Northern Lords, many of them bringing their sons and daughters. The direwolf had brought a lot of talk and rumors apparently, and everyone was eager to see a living specimen of the Stark sigil, even in Winterfell itself the wolf had caused something of an uproar.

Lady Stark had almost had a nervous breakdown when she had come to Jon's room to apologize of all things for her past behavior. Needless to say, coming face to face with a wolf almost as tall as she was was not something she had expected, and Maester Luwin had been forced to serve her a goblet of some strong northern aquavit, a drink distilled through potatoes and then had some cinnamon or dill added for extra flavor. In large doses it hit like a hammer and tasted even worse, but it did the job.

Sadly Lady Stark did not care for Winter, so Jon had to keep the wolf in his bedchambers for the most part, though she was also close to whelping so she didn't like to move much at any rate.

While most of the castle was on its feet in order to prepare not only for the wedding but also for the arrival of the King, Jon was thankfully free, under the guise of getting to know his bride. So he and Alys spent most of their days walking about the castle, visiting the Godswood, or even taking short riding trips, while a wet-nurse took care of Torrhen and Lyarra.

"You know," Jon said suddenly when they were on the way back to Winterfell after a horse ride, "we never spoke of Lyarra."

"What do you mean?" Alys said as she furrowed her brow slightly.

"Well, most women wouldn't be pleased their husband had a bastard, especially if he was raising that bastard amongst his own trueborn children."

Alys looked over at Jon. "You intend to raise her yourself?"

Jon nodded slightly. "Her mother is dead, and there is no way I will expose any children of mine to Lady Stark's 'tender mercies' any more than I need to." Sighing Jon wiped a few loose strands of hair away from his eyes. "She is my blood, and my responsibility."

"Do you intend to father more?" Alys asked casually.

Jon growled slightly in irritation. "I may not have been the most… well behaved of men," Alys snorted contemptuously at that, "but I keep my vows. Once we speak the words in front of the heart tree, I am yours as much as you are mine, I will not stray."

Alys reached out her hand to entwine her fingers with Jon. "Then that is good enough for me. I cannot fault you for Lyarra, especially not considering the circumstances of Torrhen's birth." Losing her smile slightly she placed her hands back on the reins. "I am not some southron septa like… others Jon Snow, you need not fear that I will treat your daughter like Lady Stark did you."

Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Thank you."

While they never spoke ill of Lady Catelyn directly, neither Jon nor Alys, or a lot of other northerners approved of the way she acted sometimes. For all that Lady Catelyn loved her children, she was a southerner. She kept to the faith of the Seven, which with the exception of a few houses like the Manderly's was looked down upon in the North. And while she tried as best she could, treating everyone courteously, it was clear to see that she thought of many northerners and their customs as savage or barbaric. Few blamed her, she was after all a product of her upbringing, but while some hostility to a bastard was expected, no woman liked her husband dishonoring her after all, treating a bastard like Lady Catelyn had treated Jon was very much frowned upon.

"Have you spoken with your father?" Jon asked.

"Yes, he has agreed to supply us with two hundred men at arms, and has agreed to let Edd stay with us for some time."

Jon nodded. Edd, or Eddard, was Alys' youngest brother, a mere year older than Jon, and as the third son didn't have much more to look forward to in ways of inheritance than a small holdfast in Lord Karstark's lands, so sending him off with Jon and Alys not only allowed Alys to have family close, but also to let Edd have a chance to make something of himself away from his father and brother's shadow. "We will need someone who can act as Castellan or Captain of the Guard, and Edd is skilled enough for both," Jon said.

"Also he doesn't hate you for despoiling his sister." Alys said with an impish grin, causing Jon to laugh.

"There is that yes," he agreed.

"And you?" she asked.

"Father spoke of offering us four hundred men. There will most likely be more offered by other Lords. A rebuilt Moat Cailin is important to everyone, so we can expect men from most of the Lords, though I doubt it will be in the same numbers as we are getting from our fathers."

"We will probably be able to call on more from the surrounding lands as well. After they started getting the rice fields going more and more people have started to move to the Moat and surrounding villages have they not?"

Jon nodded. "Most of them are simple farmers though, the usual people who get drafted into levies whenever war comes, they're not soldiers in any sense of the word. Still, it's better than no men at all."

Alys didn't say anything, just rode. That was one of the things Jon liked about Alys, she understood him, at least somewhat. She wasn't the sort of person who had to be in constant conversation, more than content like Jon to be silent and enjoy the moment. That's not to say she was constantly silent, she liked a bad jape as much as the next man, and had a wickedly sharp tongue when the situation called for it.

She was also very fond of horse riding and archery, though didn't care much for the sword, unlike his sister Arya, though she had admitted to carrying a dagger on her person, as one never knew when a dagger would be necessary after all.

Coming up on the last hill before Winterfell they stopped for a moment. A long train of horses at various distances were closing in on Winterfell. Various Lords of the North most likely, as this was the day they had been invited to arrive. A few like the Cerwyns, Glovers, and Tallharts had arrived a few days past, while most seemed to be making their arrival now. Speeding up their horses Jon and Alys caught up with the closest retinue of men, who, if one went by the brown moose with black banners on an orange field had to be Lord Halys Hornwood, his son Daryn, the man Lord Karstark had tried to arrange a marriage to for Alys, and his wife Donella.

"Lord Hornwood, Lady Hornwood," Jon greeted as he bowed his head respectfully once they caught up with them.

"I'll be buggered," Lord Hornwood said as he took in Jon's appearance. "I'd heard the rumors but I didn't believe…" he trailed off, before shaking off whatever thoughts occurred to him. "It is my pleasure to meet you young Stark," he said.

"I'm not a Stark yet," Jon said. "At least not until the King arrives."

Bah." Lord Hornwood waved off the excuse. "Looking at you, I'd say you've been a Stark most of your life. Just like your father you are." he finished causing Jon to raise his eyebrows skeptically. From what Jon knew, his father hadn't been near as adventurous as Jon himself, still he supposed that Lord Hornwood would know much better than Jon did.

"Thank you My Lord," Jon said with another small bow of his head.

"And you must be Lady Karstark?" Halys said as he gave a respectful nod of his head.

"I am My Lord," Alys replied.

Halys Hornwood nodded in approval. "She'll make a fine wife for you young Stark, though from what I hear she's already proven that she can bear you children," he japed slightly, causing both Jon and Alys to chuckle slightly, not at all embarrassed.

"You can say that we got some practice in for the wedding night," Alys said with a grin, causing both Lord Hornwood and his son Daryn to laugh, while Lady Donella kept her mirth to a pair of quivering lips.

"Not unheard of." Halys said before a smirk stretched across his face. "Though one usually waits for such activities until one has become betrothed at least."

Jon coughed nervously as he rubbed hand across his neck. His first instinct had been to lash out, as that last remark could have been seen as an insult, and from the looks in both Alys' and Lady Donella's eyes he could see they didn't approve of that last comment either.

"Well husband, I, for one, think that to be better than to get in practice with another woman after having said one's wedding vows," Lady Donella said sharply, causing Lord Hornwood to wince, while his son tried to hide his chuckles, lest his mother discover him laughing. "Don't you laugh my son, if I ever discover that you dishonor your wife after you wed her I'll take you over my knee like I used to when you were a boy," those words did at least stop Daryn from laughing.

It was no secret that Halys Hornwood had been unfaithful to his Lady wife when she was off visiting her kin in White Harbor, and had fathered a bastard named Laurence who was now fostering with the Glovers. From what Jon knew she treated the boy well enough, not loving as a mother, but more like an aunt, far kinder than most bastards in Westeros could hope for, and she had been the one to arrange for Lord Glover to foster the boy after he turned eight, as was practice for many noble sons.

The next few minutes were highly uncomfortable. Lord Hornwood was doing his best not to raise his Lady wife's ire, and Daryn was in the same boat. While Jon and Alys both had their fair share of witty comments, but had to hold them back, it wouldn't do to insult guests who were bringing gifts for their wedding.

Conversation soon picked up again at least as they spotted another group of riders who rode over to them, Jon didn't even need to look at their sigil to spot them as Umbers. The smallest of them looked to be closer to seven feet, and as they neared Jon saw to his shock that the two 'shorter' ones were both girls, probably Lord Umber's daughters. The Greatjon himself was flanked by two of his three sons, both of them with a shock of reddish-brown hair and beards, while the Greatjon's beard was almost entirely grey with a few specks of brown still mixed in.

"Jon the Bloody!" the Greatjon boomed when he caught up with them. "Look at you, more like your father every day from what I hear!" the giant man laughed as he slapped Jon on the back, almost sending Jon careening off his horse.

"So people keep telling me." Jon said confused.

"Let me introduce ye to me boys, this one here is my firstborn, the Smalljon as people call him," though Jon couldn't for one second understand why, as the man on Lord Umber's right, was at least as big and broad as his father. Pointing to his left he continued, "My other boy Beron, and my two daughters Becka and Lyssa," he finished, pointing to his two daughters, who while certainly large, were neither fat nor ugly. They weren't likely to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty at a tourney, but one hardly needed to be drunk to bed them either.

"My Lords, My Ladies," Jon greeted them with a nod.

"So finally Brandon's little wolf is getting married eh?" the Greatjon asked with a laugh. "Was about time someone tamed the Bloody Wolf of the North." he said with a wink to Alys. "How did you manage it girl?"

Alys uncharacteristically blushed as she mumbled something.

"What was that girl?" the Greatjon asked while Beron who was the closest to her laughed.

"She said she got lost and found her way into his bed and decided to keep him." Beron said, causing the rest of the party to snigger at Jon and Alys.

"Ah, young love, just like me and your mother when I was young." the Greatjon said to his younger son. "Did I tell you about that time…"

"NO!" both of Lord Umber's sons yelled. "We do not care to hear any more of your sordid tales about mother." added Smalljon.

The Greatjon shared a grin with Jon and Alys but refrained from further storytelling. The rest of the ride to Winterfell was spent with conversation back and forth, though markedly more lewd as the Umber's were not ones to restrict their language to polite conversation. Their party was one of the last to arrive as every other Lord, their families and his own father, stepmother and siblings all stood in the courtyard when they dismounted.

"Hurry and get changed into finer clothes, the King will be arriving along with the Manderlys before the hour is past." his father said, causing both Jon and Alys to widen their eyes as they rushed off. Jon had it easier than his betrothed as he merely had to change his clothes, whereas Alys had already started to fret about gods knows how many things. She was fortunate as a veritable horde of northern Ladies descended upon her to offer help.

Jon didn't know how they managed it, but by the time he had taken a quick bath and changed into his finest clothes, a pair of dark leather trousers, a brown tunic with a grey direwolf on the chest, and a heel length cape topped by the fur of a black wolf, Alys had already been washed, done her hair into a collection of soft ringlets and braids, donned a black and silver dress, decorated with the blazing white sun of house Karstark, and managed to apply makeup to her face. When he had first laid eyes on her where she was standing next to her father in the courtyard he had been struck dumb. He had always known she was a good looking girl, but never had he seen her look so stunning; she was cold like the North, but undeniably beautiful as well, with red lips, kohl applied to draw focus to her eyes, and just the faintest hint of red on her cheeks.

"THE WOLF'S BEEN STRUCK BLIND!" the Greatjon roared suddenly, causing an outbreak of laughter.

"You look beautiful My Lady." Jon said hoarsely as he laid a kiss upon Alys' hand.

"You clean up well too My Lord." she grinned as she curtsied ever so slightly.

Taking his place at her side next to his father, Jon tried as best he could to keep still as they waited for the King and the Manderlys. Soon the sound of their horses could be heard, until after what seemed like an age the Royal party came riding into the courtyard.

Leading the procession were a pair of Stormlander knights, carrying banners displaying the black crowned stag of House Baratheon on a field of gold, followed by another pair of knights carrying the merman of House Manderly. Next in line were twenty knights in Baratheon or Manderly colors, riding in a column of twos. Then came the Kingsguard, and in the front was none other than Barristan Selmy, the greatest Knight in all of Westeros, his white plate gleaming in the sun. Behind him, riding side by side were another two of the Kingsguard, and then came the King and Jon did all he could not to gape, as did many others.

Gone was the legendary warrior who had broken Rhaegar at the Trident, the man who won three victories in a single day at Summerhall, and in his place was a man with a great black beard, peppered with grey. Had it not been for the fact that he wore a crown, Jon would have thought him to be a kinsman to Lord Wyman Manderly, who himself so fat he couldn't ride a horse, and true enough, beside the king, riding in a richly carved carriage of mahogany was Lord Wyman. Behind the King and Lord Wyman were another pair of Kingsguard, followed by two heavyset men who had to be Lord Wyman's sons Wendel and Wylis, while Wyman's granddaughters Wylla and Wynafryd and his goddaughter Leona Woolfield rode with Lord Wyman in his carriage.

As one the men and women in the courtyard fell to one knee before the King, who had to have a wooden pedestal placed next to his horse in order to dismount it. The King walked over quickly, a grim look on his face. Stopping before Lord Stark he stopped and gestured for the people to rise. "You've got fat," he stated as he looked at Lord Stark.

Jon felt red creep up his neck as he let out a cough, while thankfully his Lord Father distracted the King by raising his eyebrows in amusement and nodding towards the King's own considerable bulk.

The King and his father stared at each other for a few seconds before both broke out into laughter and embraced. "Gods be damned Ned, it's been too long since I saw the North," Looking over at Jon his eyes widened. "So this is him then? Brandon's bastard?"

Jon furrowed his brows in confusion; again someone called him his uncle Brandon's bastard. "Your Grace?" he asked.

The King frowned. "Gods Ned, you haven't told him?"

His father shook his head slightly. "I will explain later Jon, you have my word."

Something fishy was going on, Jon knew it, but accepted the fact that right here and now was probably not the best place to question it.

"Well boy, let me have a look at you," the King said as he stepped in front of Jon.

Straightening slightly Jon kept silent as the King looked him up and down, before surprising Jon by grabbing him in a hug and ruffling his hair. "I'll be damned if you don't look like him, and this is your wife to be?" he said as he shifted his gaze to Alys who curtsied deeply before him.

"Your Grace." she said.

"Hmm, you're a pretty lass." the King said. "And your boy? I heard there was to be two legitimization's done." he said.

"My son is asleep Your Grace." Jon said. "The wet-nurse looks after him."

The King nodded. "Very well then. Jon Snow, take a knee."

Jon gulped slightly as he went down to one knee and bowed his head. 'This is really happening.' he thought.

"In my authority as King, I, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, hereby name you as Jon Stark and Lord of Moat Cailin, and henceforth, in a line continuing down to your son and their sons it shall continue to be so, starting with your son Torrhen of House Stark. Do you swear to uphold your vows as a Lord of the Realm, to honor your father, your liege Lord and your King?"

"I do you Grace."

"Then rise as Jon of House Stark."

Standing up he caught his father smiling at him, before the King grabbed him in another hug and gave him a noogie with his big paw of a fist. "Come, there's drink and food to be had, and tomorrow a wedding," the King yelled suddenly, causing the men to cheer, and with his arm slung over Jon's shoulder, the King led the way into the keep of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people mentioned Sansa and my hate/dislike of her. TO clarify I do NOT hate Sansa. Sansa is a very complicated character whose story arc gets better the further into the series you get, HOWEVER no one can dispute the fact that when she is first introduced she IS a young, silly, very naive and somewhat spoilt girl with her heads in the clouds. Many love to heap endless amounts of blame/hate on her for not defending Arya, running off to Cersei and all that shit, and though the fact that she DID do those things, and as such contributed somewhat to the death of her direwolf or Ned's arrest/death the fact still remains that she was a young girl who was frightened/confused and Sansa, especially Got/CoK Sansa REALLY doesn't handle pressure or being put on the spot well.
> 
> So yes she did do those things but at the same time she was staying true to her nature, which essentially a very naive teenage girl, which is where I get my most of my dislike from I think. During my own adolescence I was certainly anything but popular, what with my interests being metal/classical music/opera and mountain climbing, and believe me, to a teenage boy who so clearly don't fit into the 'norm' a single or even worse a clique of teenage girls is a horribly cruel thing, and I feel no shame in admitting that the 'popular' (read;bitches) of my school gleefully made my life a living hell. So yes, some of my distaste for early Sansa which is after all the first impression we get of her is probably coloured by my general dislike for a lot of teenage girls. Not to say that all teenage girls are like that of course, but Sansa is somewhat of a naive teenage girl that fit the 'stereotype' well.
> 
> However as I said Sansa improves a LOT, especially when we get to AffC, and even with the poor first impression we get I think Sansa is a person who should be more pitied than outright hated, as even before her father died people has been trying to use her. Even Ned used her as 'bait' in a fashion by deliberately bringing her south to make everything seem 'normal'. My biggest fear for Sansa is that she'll eventually snap under all the abuse/exploitation that has just heaped up over the years and eventually end up like Cersei, she has certainly learned from both her and Littlefinger, her change is especially evident in the show where Sansa turns much darker/distrustful very quickly, and she does seem to crave power (which is understandable)
> 
> Hope this cleared out the air a little bit about those who seem to think that I am an unabashed Sansa hater, I got a fair few very nasty flames on FFN that's for sure.
> 
> On a last note to the douche who did his best to no doubt hurt my feelings by complaining about 'mary-sue' and all that shit. I'll accept a valid complaint from him when he writes/posts something of his own. Constructive critism is one thing (and welcomed) flaming is no appreciated. Also 'mary-sue', if you want to read about regular Jon Snow, who while awesome is somewhat of a downer lots of the time there are certainly lots of good fics or I don't know...the Bloody books themselves to read. I've stated quite well I think that this fic is written from the premise of Jon being a lot more like his mother and uncle Brandon, and how this could change things. Also I've categorized this as humour, I like humour, and somewhat happy endings, so if that's not your cup of tea then why the hell do you bother taking the time to read it at all? this is Fanfiction, and one of the joys of fanfiction and also I'd say the point of it all is to play with the established universe and do something different with it. . .
> 
> Ok. . .Rant Over
> 
> Again Thanks to my awesome beta Tallman7, any mistakes that has slipped his keen mind and eyes can be written off to my being Norwegian and English is a second language to me.
> 
> Cheers  
> Daemon Belaerys


	3. A Northern Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning, there is a lemon at the end of this chapter, clearly marked so that you can skip it.

** Disclaimer. As usual anything you recognize isn't mine. **

** Winterfell, 297 AC, Jon. **

As soon as the King and the other guests had been settled into the great hall, Jon followed his… father… into his solar for the explanation he'd been promised. Taking a seat in front of his father's desk he waited impatiently for his father to start his explanation.

Lord Eddard Stark seemed conflicted. Jon noted he took his time to formulate his words, eventually growling slightly as he placed a goblet in front of Jon and himself, before filling both with a generous dose of aquavit from a dusty bottle. "Drink," he said to Jon before taking a healthy sip, closing his eyes as he savored the potent alcohol.

Far from a stranger to alcohol, including some gnarly stuff the wildlings that raided Bear Island brought with them, Jon threw back the drink, taking a deep breath of satisfaction as he felt warmth spread through him.

"You are not my son Jon, you are my nephew." came Eddard's sudden declaration. Well, that was certainly a far more blunt approach than Jon had expected.

"And my mother?" Jon asked. He'd had suspicions for a while now, especially with the continued whispers of 'Brandon's boy' and similar comments the last years. So while he certainly wasn't pleased that his father – no, uncle – had lied to him and was in fact not his father, he wasn't too shocked.

His uncle shook his head. "There were… complications surrounding your birth and my own actions in the rebellion. Your mother is dead." His uncle seemed to be awash with pain, shame and guilt in equal measure.

Seeing Jon about to retort his uncle held up a hand to forestall him. "Your mother loved you from the day she felt you quickening in her womb. Even as your birth doomed her she loved you till her last breath, never think otherwise."

Wiping his suddenly blurry eyes Jon was surprised to discover that tears filled them. To tell the truth, he had always held out hope that perhaps someplace out there his mother was alive, and mayhap even waiting for him to show up at her door someday, but at the same time he had always known that it was nothing more than a hollow dream: a fervent hope from a young boy who wanted a mother due to his own 'father's' wife spurning him at every turn. "I just want to know who she was," Jon said with a hollow voice.

"I know," his uncle said as he stood up and walked around his desk to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, "but, with how the Rebellion ended, and due to the side I fought for… exploring the other side of your family will bring you nothing but pain and trouble."

"What was she like?" Jon asked in desperation.

"Much like yourself: she was a free spirit to the last, not at all ashamed to make her opinion known, and she was a great beauty. Knights, Lords and Princes alike sought her favor."

Jon closed his eyes, trying for perhaps the thousandth time to conjure up some image of her, but from his own looks, and the looks of his two uncles and description of his father he could find nothing to associate her with, except perhaps that she had been a talented singer, his own voice having brought more than one fair maiden to tears (and into his bed). "Do you think… would she be proud of me?"

His uncle laughed. "She would be proud yes, but I fear she would also be quite exasperated, and let's not start on your choice… or number of bedmates."

Jon grinned ruefully. "I suppose I am my father's son in that aspect from what I've heard."

His uncle remained silent. "One day, perhaps. I will tell you more about your mother. For now we are missing a party."

Walking to the great hall together, they arrived just in time to see the Greatjon slam an angry fist onto the table while staring balefully at the King. "Lord Umber what is the meaning of this?" Ned asked, breaking the King, the Greatjon, and half a dozen other northern Lords out of their argument.

"Ned." the Greatjon began as he stood up, and with the other Lords stormed over to where Jon and his uncle stood. "We were discussing the bedding ceremony."

"Fuck that Greatjon!" the King boomed, laughing slightly as he too joined them. "The Greatjon and his fellow Lords are thinking that the bedding ceremony tomorrow should be dispensed."

Jon grinned slightly, he had a good feeling as to why the Greatjon and the other Lords with him wanted the bedding dispensed with, and from the look of his uncle, who was running a tired hand across his face, seemed to be of the same mind. All those Lords had daughters with them after all.

"Jon…" his uncle started only for the Greatjon to cut him off, a slightly frantic look in his eyes.

"Ned, if you think I will let my daughters anywhere near the wolf-boy here with only fellow maidens for company while undressing him you can think again. I have love for the boy, the entire North has, but we're not stupid either."

Try as he might Jon was unable to stop himself from breaking out in cackles. Of all the Lords of the North, the Greatjon was one of the least suitable ones to play the role of worried father, especially considering his own exploits when he was Jon's age.

"You find this amusing Jon?" his uncle asked after giving him a probably well-deserved slap over the back of his head.

"N-no." Jon said with a trembling voice as he tried to keep his face serious.

"Good, because if you did, I'd probably be forced to remind you that your future wife has three older brothers, half a dozen cousins, and a very sharp temper."

Well that certainly brought Jon back to earth. He had been able to deal with Alys' brothers easily enough, but the thought of facing a good eight or nine Karstark boys at the same time, all of them out for his blood, was a bit more daunting. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't exactly beat his wife either, especially not if the situation was of his doing in the first place.

"Perhaps the wolf-boy has something between his ears after all," the Greatjon said with a smirk that was shared by his fellow Lords.

The King who had done nothing but looked on with amusement broke into hysterical laughter. "Hah, just like your father you are." he sniggered as he slapped Jon on the back, nearly sending Jon to the floor. "Come, come, there's someone I want you to meet." He then threw one of his large arms across Jon's shoulders, leading him to one of the lower tables in the hall, eventually stopping before a tall and heavily muscled black haired lad perhaps a year or two younger than Jon.

"This is Gendry." the King said with a tone of… affection and pride in his voice. "He's a blacksmith from King's Landing. He's young, but probably one of the best you'll find in all of Westeros. He'll be coming with you to Moat Cailin and serve as your blacksmith there."

"M'lord." Gendry said as he stood up and bowed deeply.

"None of that." Jon said as he gestured for Gendry to sit down again, before taking a seat opposite the young man. "So you're a blacksmith."

"Yes M'lord." Jon almost growled in annoyance at the boy's attitude. If there was one thing he didn't like about becoming a Lord it was the goddamn courtesies and subservience people started to show him all of a sudden. As a bastard he'd always been 'one of the people', speaking his mind, drinking with them and the like, he just wasn't used to being treated like the sun shone out from his arse.

"Call me Jon." he said, hoping probably against all hope that the boy would take the hint.

"It wouldn't be proper M'lord."

Jon almost spat out the ale he had in his mouth. "FUCK that!" he said as he swallowed. "All my life I've been a bastard. Just because the King said some words and signed a piece of paper doesn't mean that the sun has started to shine out of my arse. My name is Jon, be sure to use it."

Gendry's eyes widened slightly and as Jon turned his head he saw why. His uncle stood there with his face in his hands, shaking his head in resignation, while the King just laughed.

"I like you lad, just like your father you are." the King said before turning and walking away, and even across the din of all the noise in the hall Jon could hear the King say 'Fuck propriety!' before breaking out into renewed laughter.

"You say you were a bastard M'lo… Jon?" Gendry said, finally catching himself in time to not call Jon 'M'lord'.

"Aye, been known as the Bastard of Winterfell all my life, along with various other titles that have been added over the years, which is why I don't give a fuck about propriety. No one ever called me M'lord before, and I certainly won't hang a man for calling me by my name now just because I've been legitimized."

Gendry got a wistful look across his face, no doubt about the thought of being legitimized, as a fellow bastard Jon had no problems picking up on that expression.

"How did you come to be a blacksmith if I may ask?"

Gendry shrugged slightly. "I barely remember, it was when I was about five name days old or so. My mother had succumbed to an illness when a fat man in a hood and cloak took me to Tobho Mott and paid him to take me on as an apprentice. Been with master Mott ever since."

"Hmm." Jon said, most curious that was. "Well at least you know that your father cares about you, even if he hasn't revealed himself to you."

"You think so?" Gendry asked skeptically.

"Must be; I don't think hooded and cloaked men make a habit of picking up young boys before then paying a hefty sum to make sure that said boy will get an education and learn a trade."

Gendry nodded thoughtfully. Jon did make a point after all.

"But tell me, what can you craft?" Jon continued.

"Just about anything: Weapons, armor, plate and chain alike. Tools, nails, horseshoes, I even know how to make war machines." he finished with a grin.

"That's good," Jon said.

"… Are you intending to go to war?" Gendry asked after a moment of silence, causing Jon to laugh.

"How much do you know about the North Gendry?" Jon asked.

"Not much." Gendry admitted.

"Well, Moat Cailin, the fortress we will move to when the wedding is over, has historically been the North's greatest defense. It broke dozens if not hundreds of armies from the south who tried to conquer the North. It is the sole reason why the Andals never took the North. For thousands of years now it has been in disrepair, with only three of the original twenty towers and a rotten wooden fort standing, and it was still seen as virtually unassailable from the south."

Jon took a deep drink, vaguely noticing that Alys, Arya and a few other young girls and boys from other houses had gathered around him.

"But now, work has started to restore it. There are currently eight towers standing, and another two are being worked on. The rotten keep has been torn down and another one from stone has been made, we have one set of walls already, and soon enough we will have another wall. If as you say you can make war machines, we can add that to the already impressive defenses."

"A good plan." a strangely calm and silent voice said from behind Jon, causing him to turn around.

Standing there was a somewhat pale man, perhaps a few years older than Jon, with neck length brown hair, a thin face and pale eyes. "Domeric Bolton." he said as he extended a hand towards Jon. "You have my congratulations on your coming wedding."

Jon nodded his head slightly as he shook the hand of Roose Bolton's son. "My thanks Lord Domeric, and I thank you for coming to my wedding." Gesturing to an empty seat, watched as Domeric took it.

"This is te first Stark wedding in the North since Lord Rickard, and it would be improper not to come." Domeric said.

Jon nodded slightly as he refilled his glass. "I hear you've just returned from the Vale." Sansa gushed, no doubt eager for tales of southron chivalry.

"Yes, I served as a squire to Lord Redfort for three years before I returned home. I was intending to visit my bastard brother when I recieved the invitation."

Jon and a few of the others around the table shuffled slightly, causing Domeric to raise a questioning eyebrow.

"I've only heard rumors," Jon started, "and while no hard evidence has been given, your brother does not have a good reputation in the North."

Domeric narrowed his eyes slightly. "He is my brother." he said, "I always wanted a brother." he added so softly that Jon thought that he had perhaps not even meant to say the words.

"I'm not saying he isn't, all I am saying is that if there is any truth to the rumors about your brother you should exercise some… caution. Visit him and see for yourself, but keep a discerning eye when you do it."

Domeric nodded slightly, as if deep thought. "Perhaps I shall. I shall have to ask my father about the veracity of these rumors." And just like that, the Bolton heir suddenly stood and walked off.

"Boltons." Edd spat after he was sure that Domeric was outside of hearing range. "Gives me the chills, the whole lot of them."

Jon nodded in agreement with Edd. The Boltons had long had a bad reputation in the North, and most likely they would always have a bad reputation. Then again, when you used a flayed man as your sigil you probably asked for it.

"Is there a problem with the Boltons?" Gendry asked.

"The Boltons were the last house in the North to swear allegiance to the Starks, the nasty dried up cunts." Edd explained. "They used to flay their victims alive; and even today their sigil is that of a flayed man."

Gendry's eyes widened, "They flayed people alive?"

Jon grimaced slightly. There were rumors abound even now, thousands of years after, that the Bolton's still had the skins of several Stark's that they had made into cloaks, but he doubted that Gendry was looking to hear about that.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much." another voice said suddenly. "The Starks outlawed flaying over a thousand years ago."

Turning, Jon spotted the tall form of Dacey Mormont, who, despite her tall frame seemed to fit just as well into the dark green dress she wore as she did in mail. "Lady Dacey." Jon exclaimed. "It has been too long since last I visited Bear Island."

Dacey smirked slightly. "My sisters send their love." she said before extending her hand to Alys. "Dacey Mormont, Lady Alys."

Alys shook her hand, "I assume you know each other?" she asked.

"Yes, though not as well as some would think," Dacey grinned, causing a few of the others at their table to laugh, while Jon grimaced.

"I may not have been the most… well behaved young lad," he said as he ignored the accompanying snorts, "but I was hardly so bad that I fucked every woman who looked comely."

Dacey raised a skeptical eyebrow, one that was shared by Robb and Alys before a sly grin crossed her face. "My sisters send their congratulations."

"Send them my thanks." Jon said. "Why are they not here if I may ask?"

"With me and mother here, Alysane is running Bear Island. Lyanna is still somewhat young, so mother preferred for her to remain."

"And Lyra and Jorelle?" Jon asked.

Dacey's smirk grew wider. "They decided to stay on Bear Island with their daughters: both babes are still young, barely off the teat."

Jon felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I didn't know they had wed." Robb – stupid lovable Robb – said suddenly.

"Oh they're not." Dacey said.

"But…" Robb started before he suddenly grinned just as widely as Dacey as he shifted his gaze over to Jon who suddenly felt very hot underneath his collar.

"They were fathered by a bear in the woods," Dacey said by way of explanation… the same excuse her mother had given to anyone who questioned the paternity of Dacey or her sisters.

"You sure it wasn't a wolf?" Robb asked with a trembling voice as his whole frame shook.

"Fuck you Robb." Jon snarled while the rest laughed, with even Alys snickering at him.

"Well, at least I know that my husband will be able to provide me with strong children." she japed.

"I thought you knew that already." Dacey laughed.

"That's it." Jon said as he stood up. "Gendry, you know how to fight?"

Gendry stuttered slightly as he denied having any experience with fighting.

"That won't do." Jon said. "No blacksmith of mine can be ignorant in the ways of combat. Seeing as it is so hot in here we shall go outside and I'll give you your first lesson."

Robb smirked at Gendry's suddenly worried look, at least until he spotted Jon giving him a nasty grin. "Robb, I'll need your help for a demonstration."

Robb paled, especially as Edd and Dacey caught on and each grabbed one of his arms. "Fuck!"

**L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R***

"What did you do now?" was Lord Stark's first words when he spotted Robb, Jon Gendry, Edd, and Harrion the next morning.

"Not so loud." a weak voice whispered from the other side of a stack of barrels in the practice yards.

"Robert." Another, older and wearier voice joined the voice of Jon's uncle. "Why do you do this to me?" he asked exasperatedly and Jon finally recognized the second voice to be the one belonging to his namesake Jon Arryn.

Groaning slightly, Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he took stock of the situation. His cousin, new blacksmith and two of his good-brothers, and probably himself as well all looked like hell, and as he searched through his alcohol soaked mind he realized why.

He, Robb, Edd and Harrion and Gendry had gone outside for, ostensibly to teach Gendry a thing or two about fighting, but as alcohol was consumed and insults started to fly back and forth, any pretense of 'sparring flew out the window as they started a free for all brawl. They had stopped briefly as the King found them, and after laughing at them, he had cajoled them into further drinking as he started to ramble on about war stories or this and that wench he had bedded at some point. Eventually the King had become so drunk that he had shocked the seven hells out of all of them by revealing that he was Gendry's father.

Gendry proved at that very moment that he was his father's son in more than just looks by actually jumping the King in his alcohol soaked rage, and things just turned into complete anarchy from there. The King, far from being angry, had just laughed, no doubt eager for his first good scrap since his own rebellion most like, and had eagerly clubbed everyone over the head with his fists… not that the northerners were content to stand by and watch, Everyone had given their best: punching, kicking, scratching, pinching and even biting, no holds barred. Eventually they had all just sat down, bruised and bloody, and laughed at the absurdity of it all as they passed a bottle of some strong spirits from the Summer Isles back and forth, and eventually had fallen asleep.

That is, until his uncle and the Hand of the King Jon Arryn had woken them up.

"Well!" his uncle asked sharply, causing Jon and his friends to wince in pain.

"FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS NED, NOT SO LOUD!" the King yelled before gripping his head in sudden pain, caused by his own shouting.

"We went outside for some drinks, and one thing led to another," Jon tried his best to explain while gingerly touching his nose, which hurt like hell. At least it wasn't broken.

"Fuck Jon," Harrion groaned, "you got my eyes again." True enough, the black eyes he had gotten from Jon at their first meeting had almost receded by last eve, but he was now sporting fresh ones, and Jon got a faint recollection of his fist hitting the Karstark heir twice in the face in rapid succession due to some insult.

"I expected this from you Jon." his uncle said. "But you Robb? What do you think your mother will say when she sees you?"

Robb paled, and with good reason: his nose was crooked, the result of it challenging and losing to Gendry's forehead, his chin sported an impressive blue and yellow mark, and his fine clothes were ripped and torn in several places.

"Bah. Harmless fun Ned. A little scrap keeps the spirits up." King Robert said as he staggered over. Despite being twice the size of anyone else that Jon had seen, with the exception of Lord Wyman Manderly, the King was definitely the one who looked least worn out of them. Clearly the large amounts of blubber he carried was little to no hindrance to his fighting skills, and Jon felt a sudden moment of pity for Prince Rhaegar, who had kidnapped and raped his aunt Lyanna. He would not like to be the one who had to face Robert Baratheon when the man was in his prime.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was a tall man with pale blue eyes and greying hair, but despite his age Jon could see the intelligence hidden in those blue orbs, though at the moment he looked less like a wise old man who held the kingdoms together and more like an old resigned man who was ready to give up. "I leave you alone for one night." Arryn muttered, causing Robert and his uncle Ned to share guilty grins with each other. "I swear Robert, you are still that obnoxious hot-blooded young man who fostered with me in the Vale seven and ten years ago," he said tiredly, and Jon almost sniggered when he noticed the famous Robert Baratheon who everyone said had no shame actually blush slightly at the chastisement, then again, Jon Arryn had raised him so he supposed it was only natural that the old man could actually still make Robert feel at least _some_ shame.

"Enough of this." his uncle said. "All of you get inside and get cleaned up." and then his uncle and Jon Arryn both walked back into the keep, both of them muttering some very unlordly things under their breaths.

One by one they picked themselves up to get back into the keep, with Jon helping the King get Gendry back on his feet. "Jon, I would like a word alone with my… son. I have words that need to be said."

Seeing the King serious for the first time, and the myriad of emotions that flashed across Gendry's face, Jon decided that making himself scarce was probably the best thing. "Of course, Your Grace."

A few minutes later he was relaxing in a bath, washing away the grime and blood from last night and letting his muscles soothe their ache

"Tough night?" Jon whirled his head around, only to spot Alys in the doorway, holding a bundle of clean clothes in her hands.

"You could say that." he grinned.

"You look like shit." she said bluntly, causing Jon to laugh. He had spotted himself in a mirror before going to the bath and it wasn't a pretty sight.

"You should see the others." he sniggered as Alys sat down on a stool beside him.

Alys sighed slightly. "Why must you menfolk always fight over the meanest detail?" she asked as she started to rummage through a small satchel at her side.

"Male bonding, the King called it." Jon said with a shrug as he leaned his head back, only to jerk slightly as he felt Alys' hands on his forehead. Opening his eyes he could see that she held a hooked needle and accompanying thread in her hand.

"I must sew this cut above your eye." she explained and Jon closed his eyes again as he tried to relax. While nothing had been broken during last night's brawl, he had received rather nasty cut above his brow.

Having stitches sown into his flesh was never a pleasant experience, but he'd had worse before so he grit his teeth and let Alys finish. "There, all done." she said as she laid a soft kiss on his lips, causing Jon's hands to instinctively reach for her body for more, only to be slapped away by Alys who tutted disapprovingly. "None of that my dear, you must wait for tonight."

Jon sulked slightly as Alys stepped out of his reach. "You are a cruel woman My Lady." he said with mock pain. "Leaving me like this."

Alys glanced into the water before smirking at him. "You have a pair of hands My Lord, surely you could take the problem… in hand?" she said slyly before running off giggling, leaving Jon alone.

"Woman is going to be the death of me." Jon mumbled before letting his hand grip his cock.

**L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R***

It was a relieved and at the same time frustrated Jon who finally stepped out of his rooms clad in his new clothes. His uncle and cousin Sansa had both tried to impress upon him the need for 'dressing up,' and to an extent he had acquiesced. He wore a new and tight fitting pair of black leather trousers, and his worn boots had been replaced by a new pair that had been treated so they almost shone in the light. Next was a white shirt of fine cotton with a high collar and a grey direwolf embroidered on both sides of his neck. Above his shirt he wore a dark brown leather brigandine that went down to just above his knees, split along the sides and up the middle to the waist for better movement. Hanging on his shoulders was the pelt of a snow white bear that he had killed in a hunt on Bear Island, and the head of the large bear still hung in the hall of the Mormont's while the rest of the bear pelt had been made into a sort of cloak for him.

One of the bear's arms went over his shoulder and across his chest, while the other arm came up from his left and connected to the arm across his chest with the aid of a pair of hooks and rings that had been added. It was large enough that the lower end of the pelt almost touched the ground, ending just above his ankle.

Finally his sword Red Rain was slung across his back, while his belt held a shorter sword in a leather scabbard. "Look at you, all grown up." said his uncle Benjen, who had been permitted by Lord Commander Mormont to attend Jon's wedding.

"Uncle Benjen." Jon laughed as he grabbed his uncle in a hug, noticing that he was suddenly taller than his uncle. "Thank you for coming."

Benjen grinned as he ruffled Jon's hair before holding him at arm's length. "You didn't think I'd miss my favorite nephew's wedding did you?"

Jon quirked an eyebrow. "Favorite, uncle? You should pay heed and make sure that Lady Stark does not hear you."

Benjen laughed. "Thanks to you and others hounding the Ironborn as you've done, we have a lot more brothers on the Wall now."

Jon grinned. "I couldn't kill the cowards who threw down their arms, wouldn't be sporting would it?"

"I am glad for it Jon, a good man does not take a life when he doesn't have to." Benjen said as they walked through the halls of the old castle.

"I'll miss this place." Jon said as they passed an old painting of a Stark King whose name had been forgotten in time.

Benjen gripped his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "I know the feeling; I am happy where I am, but Wintefell will always be my home."

"How did you deal with it?"

Benjen shrugged slightly. "You move on. The Wall became my new home and I did the best I could. As for you, Moat Cailin will be yours; it will belong to you and your sons. Besides, it is not as if you are forbidden from ever coming back to visit." Benjen finished with a smile.

"Thanks uncle." Jon said.

Benjen nodded as they continued their walk. "I forget how it can be to be young and leaving home for good."

Jon grinned slightly. "Must be terrible to be old." he said before speeding up.

"Exac- wait! COME BACK HERE!"

Jon let out a bark of laughter before he ran off with Benjen chasing him while trying to avoid laughing too. Before Benjen could catch up with him, Jon entered the great hall where people had already started eating, though it was still fairly early, perhaps an hour or so after midday.

"I see you… solved your problem," Alys grinned when he sat down at the high table at his uncle's right hand for the first time in his life.

"What problem?" his uncle asked with a sharp voice as he narrowed his eyes.

"Oh nothing he couldn't take in hand." Alys said with a sweet and sly grin.

Ned Stark narrowed his eyes in thought a moment before closing them in frustration. "Jon, I do not want to hear about your sordid affairs at the table around my young and more importantly innocent children."

"What kind of problem is it one needs to take in hand?" Arya asked curiously.

'SLAM!' The sound of his uncle's head smashing down onto the table caused Jon to grin, even as Robb leant over and said "I'll tell you when you're older," He shared a look with Jon, to which Jon responded to with a nod. If they had their way, Arya would at least be twenty before such a discussion became viable.

Shortly after people started to bring forth the gifts for the wedding. Lord Wyman was the first, gifting Jon and Alys two full carts of exotic food and fruits for their larder. Lady Barbrey of House Dustin gifted them with a pair of horses from her personal stables. Lord Bolton did like Lord Wyman and gifted them with food. House Umber promised them a shipment of battleaxes. Houses Glover and Cerwyn granted a large shipment of lumber, and House Forrester promised them a delivery of Ironwood.

The Ryswell's gave them a gift of dozens of cups, goblets, plates, and cutlery of steel and silver, while the Mountain Clans supplied them with a great bounty of furs and leather.

His own family provided them with a dozen oxen and twice that number of cows, and enough steel and armor to outfit a thousand men, while Alys' father Rickard supplied them with a near fifty sheep.

Other gifts included bolts of cloth, various tools, banners or other forms of decoration, and near every house (with some exceptions like House Bolton and House Dustin) had supplied a number of men (and their accompanying families) so that Jon and Alys would be able to muster twelve-hundred men in total before counting those who already lived in the lands surrounding the Moat.

Then came King Robert. "As you know," he started with his booming voice, "I've given you my bastard Gendry to serve as your blacksmith, but I also bring you another gift. Your father ordered it but never had time to collect it before his passing. I now give it to you." And with that a pair of Baratheon soldiers unveiled the finest piece of armor he had ever seen. A full set of plate in which the metal itself had been colored naturally instead of painted in hues of grey, white and brown.

"Your Grace." Jon said with a thick voice. "Thank you."

The King laughed. "I'm not done yet, there will be a price to pay for my favor."

Jon blinked. "What is your command Your Grace?"

"I have another boy…" the King said, most likely not hearing one of his guardsmen muttering _'That you know of.'_ "Edric, the poor lad, is rotting away all alone in Storm's End. Renly is away for most of the time in the capital or Highgarden, Stannis refuses to see the boy and I can't keep him with me either, so you'll take the boy in as a squire and make sure he gets to know his older brother."

Countless whispers erupted at once as Lords, Ladies and guardsmen alike were eager to discuss that development. As for Jon, he certainly had no problems with it, and from the somewhat longing and hopeful look on Gendry's face he couldn't well refuse either. "I would be honored Your Grace." he said with a bow.

Then Jon Arryn stood up. "I too have a small gift, after all it would be rude of me to not gift the boy my foster son named after me." he said as many of the Northmen grinned. "House Arryn, as well as House Royce, Belmore, Waynwood, Redfort and Templeton, in recognition of their friendship to Lord Eddard and House Stark, have agreed to supply you with men, steel, and horses in hopes that you will continue to share bonds of friendship with the houses of the Vale."

Jon bowed deeply to the Hand of the King. "I thank you for your gift My Lord Hand, and I can assure you that should you and yours, or any of your bannermen from those Houses, show up at my door, they shall always have home and hearth at Moat Cailin, and food and mead from my table."

Jon Arryn nodded approvingly. "It pleases me to see that Ned did a good job at raising you, even if you have some… flaws." he said as he nodded towards Alys, no doubt remarking the fact that Jon had sired a bastard or three.

His uncle then stood up. "We have now exchanged gifts, food has been eaten, and drink consumed, let us now head for the Godswood to wed them."

Jon and the rest of the guests stood up and moved out to the Godswood, with the exception of Alys and a fair few of the other Ladies, who disappeared for a moment to dress her up a bit.

A few minutes later, Jon shuffled slightly on his feet as he waited for Alys to return. The Ladies who disappeared with her had already returned, and only she and her father were now missing.

"Nervous?" his uncle Ned asked him.

"Somewhat." he replied.

Ned laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a rare smile. "She will make a good wife Jon, be certain to always treat her with kindness and respect and the two of you will have a good marriage."

Jon gulped slightly, even now, so close to when they would actually say the words, the concept of marriage seemed so… strange: a foreign idea for the young man who had lived most of his life resigned to the fact that he would remain unwed. "Do you think they would approve? My parents?"

"Knowing what I did about both your mother and your father I am sure that they would both be proud, and happy for you today."

Jon let out a sigh of relief before he finally spotted Alys, who was being led towards him by her father. She was a vision of beauty. Her dark hair, normally worn in a long thick braid had been combed and hung straight down her back in soft dark waves. Her eyes shone and a lovely smile was on her face. She was clad in an elegant white dress, with fine embroidery in gold and silver thread. A soft white fur was draped across her shoulder, as well as her black maiden cloak with the white star in the center. Jon was almost lost for words as her father placed her hand in his own and laid a soft kiss upon her brow before stepping aside.

"Who comes before the Gods?" The King himself had decided to officiate, a fact that Jon felt quite honored by.

"Alys of House Karstark, a woman grown and flowered comes seeking the favor of the Gods." Rickard Karstark said.

"And who claims her?" continued the King.

"I, Jon of House Stark claim her." Jon said with a loud clear voice.

"Lady Alys," the King said, "Do you take this man?"

"Yes," Alys said as she smiled, "I take this man."

"And you, Jon of House Stark, will you take this woman, and honor her and provide for her as long as you both shall live?"

"I will." Jon said.

The King nodded. "Then you may cloak the bride under your protection."

Giving Alys a smile Jon unclasped her cloak and handed it to her father before accepting a new cloak, this one decorated with the grey direwolf of House Stark that he hung gently across her shoulders, clasping it at her neck with a silver brooch in the shape of a direwolf that he'd had gotten made for this purpose. Laying his hand on her cheek Jon gazed into her eyes. "With this kiss I pledge my love." he said before he pressed his lips to hers.

Alys wasn't shy as she flung her arms around his neck to drag him closer, and as she opened her mouth to let her tongue caress his own, Jon was more than willing to accommodate as he let her tongue gain entry. Meanwhile, his left hand fisted in her hair and his right hand took hold of her behind. He was only dimly aware of clapping, laughing or hooting as he wrestled Alys' tongue with his own until at last they parted, both of them flushed with arousal.

Looking around Jon grinned as he saw Lady Stark's horrified face, and more importantly how she was holding a hand in front of Arya and Bran's faces to try and make sure they didn't see, though her outrage at the… feisty kiss he had shared with Alys had overcome her so much that she didn't realize that Arya and Bran had lower her hands so that they could see, though from the faces they pulled, Jon was certain they were regretting it now.

"Here, in front of the Gods, I declare you husband and wife." King Robert finished, as he gave them both a sudden push towards the keep. "NOW LET'S DRINK AND FEAST!" he yelled, causing hundreds of voices to join him in agreement, and the whole party almost stampeded back to the great hall where dozens of serving maids and boys stood ready with large kegs of ale, mead, and aquavit. There were flagons upon flagons of wine, and the tables were almost groaning under the weight of all the food.

The party lasted for hours until King Robert suddenly stood up and grabbed both Jon and Alys and slung them over his shoulders. "TO BED WITH THEM!" he roared, and before Jon could even attempt to protest a ring of burly men, the Greatjon and Smalljon included, surrounded him, Alys, and the King.

"AYE TO BED!" the Greatjon roared. "BUT KEEP THE WOLF CHAINED UP YOUR GRACE BEFORE HE GOES WANDERING!"

Robert roared with laughter, and Jon spotted several others who thought the Greatjon equally as amusing as the King did. At least Alys seemed to take it in good sport as she laughed at Jon's discomfort, and playfully retorted at the lewd suggestions and bad japes sent her way. At least Jon got to spend some of his frustration as the Smalljon chose to make a rather suggestive comment about his alleged large member just as he stepped into reach of Jon's fist, and flanked by Edd and Torr, the Smalljon probably didn't even understand what was happening before he got Jon's fist right between his brown eyes, while Edd's fist sank into his side and Torr boxed the Smalljon's ears in with a fist on each side of his head.

Rather than to be angry or insulted that his son had been assaulted, the Greatjon boomed with laughter and decided to teach his now insensate firstborn a lesson by emptying the rest of his rather large mug of sticky mead right down the front of the Smalljon's trousers. At that point they had reached the doors to Jon's room and King Robert wasted no time in kicking the door open only to howl in shock and drop Jon and Alys as he came nose to nose with Winter.

"WHAT THE SEVEN HELLS IS THAT?" he bellowed as he backed away from Winter, who was barring her teeth at him.

"You didn't hear that I had a direwolf Your Grace?" Jon asked with a grin as he got up and calmed down the great beast by kneading her ears, causing the direwolf to whine appreciatively as her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

"These bastards neglected to mention it when we discussed the bedding earlier." the King snarled as he glared at the Northmen who were all having trouble staying upright as they shook with mirth.

"Yes well, unless you want to keep her company out here I have business to attend to." Jon said as he imitated the King by slinging his new wife over his shoulders and walking into the room while she slapped his back lightly in mock protest. Kicking the door closed, Jon gently laid Alys down on the bed. The noises and ribald japes from outside disappeared quickly enough as Winter made her displeasure known through growls, and Jon was soon left alone with Alys.

"It seems we have a duty to perform husband." Alys said as she slowly started to remove her cloak.

"That we do wife." Jon replied as his own bear cloak fell to the ground.

Alys, in Jon's mind, took her damn sweet time in undressing: teasing him by slowly peeling off her clothes until she was left in her smallclothes. Grinning slightly as she saw the burning lust in Jon's eyes she sashayed over to him and started to tug on his belt, softly kissing him or nipping lightly at his neck as she pulled away first his belt. Then, with some help from Jon, she pulled the brigandine over his head.

His new shirt was ruined over his protested 'HEY' as she simply grabbed ahold and tore, causing the silver buttons to make small pinging noises as they scattered to the four winds and hit the floor. Alys gave a pleased grin at the sight of his well-muscled physique, earnt through over a decade of hard exercise and combat. "See something you like?" he grinned at her as she rubbed her hand over his chest and pectorals.

"Mmm… admiring my husband more like." she said as her hand travelled south.

Growling slightly Jon seized her lips with his own while his hand tore at the clothes covering her breasts. Alys moaned slightly as she let his tongue slide into her own mouth. As her teats were released to his gaze, she gasped slightly as he suddenly bent down to take one of her sensitive nipples into his mouth while his hand raked over her other breast.

Stepping back slightly she kissed his lips again before whispering to him. "Do you remember the last time?"

How could he forget? The last night Alys had stayed at Winterfell before her, her brothers, and her father returned to the Karhold, they had decided to make the most of it, going at each other for hours. "I remember you screaming my name and clawing my back so much I had to visit Maester Luwin the next day." he whispered in her ear as he nipped lightly at her earlobe, producing a wanton moan from her.

"And remember what you did with your tongue? Let me return the favor this time." she said as she sank to her knees and let her hands glide over his abdomen and towards the top of his trousers.

**L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R* L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R***

**LEMON WARNING! TURN AWAY OR SKIP IF THAT IS NOT TO YOUR LIKING.**

Her nimble fingers easily loosened the leather straps on his trousers, and slowly she started to tug them down his pants. The moment his cock was loosened from its prison, Jon almost moaned in relief. He had not enjoyed the tight confines of his trousers, and to finally be rid of them was almost heavenly.

"It's gotten bigger." Alys remarked as she took his cock in her hand and started to stroke him tortuously slowly up and down.

"Things… tend… to grow as one finishes the last stages of manhood." Jon groaned as he closed his eyes at the wonderful sensation of Alys' soft hand stroking his cock.

Feeling hot breath on it he opened his eyes to spot Alys with his cock a mere inch away from her open mouth. Smirking slightly she laid a soft kiss on the bulbous head before parting his lips and taking the whole of the head inside the warm confines of her mouth. Jon immediately moaned at the sensation while his hands stroked through Alys' hair.

Regardless of how much he wanted to simply grab hold and ram his cock as far and fast into her mouth as possible, he had experience enough to know that women did not appreciate that. Besides, Alys was doing more than well. While somewhat lacking in technique compared to some of the whores he'd bedded, or even Lyra Mormont for that matter (who Jon was certain had been born to suck cock) the sight of Alys softly sucking and slurping on his cock while staring unblinkingly straight into his eyes was easily one of the most erotic experiences he'd ever had.

Something on his face must have pleased her as a glint of triumph appeared in her eyes as she started to bob her head back and forth along his length, simultaneously twirling her tongue around the head of his cock until Jon was trembling, twisting his toes and letting out short ragged gasps.

"Alys." he gasped. "I can't- almost there." he babbled, and then he erupted. His cock jerked as it spat his seed into her awaiting mouth, pulse after pulse came as he mewled in pleasure, eventually falling bonelessly onto the bed as Alys wiped the few lingering remains of his seed that hadn't landed in her mouth away.

"Poor husband." she comforted him as she molded her form onto his, her left hand idly stroking his cock. "It's been a long time for you, hasn't it?" she said as she bit and kissed her way across his neck.

"I meant what I said." Jon said softly, enjoying the hand that was slowly returning his cock to full mast. "I am yours and you are mine, I haven't touched another woman since our betrothal."

"Then I hope you have more left in you, because I have not been fucked for over a year, and I. Want. Your. Cock. In. My. Cunt." She demanded as she straddled him.

Growling slightly Jon suddenly grabbed her and twisted them around until she lay beneath him, her eyes and cheeks flushed with desire. "Then let me accommodate you wife." he snarled as he grabbed his cock and lined it up with her cunt, which was almost weeping with desire.

Grinning slightly he trapped her hands over her head with his left, while he used his right to slowly stroke his cock softly up and down her flower, almost crowing with victory as she moaned with want, her hips locking around his waist and trying in vain to pull him into her warmth.

"Please." she whispered.

Leaning down to ravage her teats with his tongue and kisses Jon smirked slightly. "Please. What?" he asked as he continued his ministrations.

"Please. Fuck ME!" she begged as she tried to get out of his grip.

Ceasing his nibbling he looked her deep in the eyes as he positioned his cock at her entrance. "As My Lady commands." he said before seizing her lips in a hungry kiss while slamming his hips forward, burying his cock in her warmth. They both moaned into each others mouths as Jon set a punishing rhythm, his cock slamming in and out at a desperate pace, both of them eager to find their peak, and as Alys screamed and raked her nails down his back while he filled her with his seed he thought that perhaps marriage wouldn't be too terrible after all…

** LEMON END! **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's it for this time. Next one should be up tomorrow or sunday (depends on how much I drink tomorrow) For those also following this story on FFN, Chapter 9 is at about 6k now so it seems that I have to yet again split the chapter up. If I don't it'll prob end up around 20k or so if I include everything I wanted to include.


	4. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time, as when I wrote this chapter it was always meant to be no more than a filler. Bigger more violent chapters coming soon enough.

** Disclaimer: As usual nothing you recognize belongs to me. **

** Winterfell: 297 AC **

Jon groaned as he woke up, and judging from the light outside, he had slept in rather longer than he usually did.

 _'And with good reason,'_ he thought as he laid eyes on his wife, who had greedily hogged most of the covers during the night. He and Alys had been rather late at going to sleep, far more occupied with enjoying each other's bodies for the first time as man and wife than with a need for rest.

Grinning slightly at her rather adorable soft snores, Jon bent his head low to softly explore her neck. There was a sweet spot there somewhere, and from the sudden moan and shiver Alys let out, he seemed to have found it. Nuzzling her neck further he was rewarded by Alys squirming away and letting out a soft giggle as she tried to escape.

"That tickles." she said as she turned around to lay a kiss on him, which he eagerly accepted.

"Does it?" he asked when she withdrew.

"Yes it does." she said as she scrunched up her forehead in contemplation before tugging on his short beard. "You'll have to get rid of this husband; I'll not have you look like an unwashed barbarian."

Jon affected a look of fake hurt. "But My Lady, haven't you heard, all us northerners are nothing more than uncultured savages."

Alys stuck her nose up in the air in defiance, a look that she held for a few seconds before they both burst out in laughter. "I suppose we have to get up My Lord, breakfast was probably hours ago."

"Oh we'll get up… eventually." he growled before pouncing on her, laughing slightly as her fake scream of panic.

It took them another hour before a much sated, and heavily ruffled, Jon poked his head out of the door to request a tub of hot water to be brought up for a bath from the smirking guard who stood in the corridor. Eventually, they had to make their way down, and as soon as they entered the hall where luncheon was already well on the way they were met by raucous cheers, wolf whistles, and lewd comments. However, Alys and Jon took it in stride and sat down next to Robb to break their fast.

"Late night I take it?" Robb asked with a grin.

"Well unlike you, cousin, I had more than just me to please, and I like to be thorough in my work." Jon shot back, causing Robb to grumble while the King laughed.

"What do you mean?" Bran asked with a confused look on his face.

"Oh just that Robb is content with his hand for now." Jon said without thinking, wincing as Robb kicked him hard on the shin while he got his ears boxed in by both Alys and his uncle whilst Lady Stark shot him a look that promised a long, slow, and torturous death if he was to elucidate any further.

"Yes well." the King said suddenly as he stood up and clanked his goblet a few times before giving it up as a bad job. "LISTEN UP YOU SHITS!" he shouted, finally grabbing the attention of the remaining men and women in the full hall. "I'll be leaving today to return to King's landing as my son Joffrey has his name day, with accompanying tourney in three weeks, and I expect to see some good northern quality down there to teach those fuckers from the Reach and Westerlands how REAL MEN fight!" he said, causing a veritable thunderstorm to break out in the room as proud Northmen let loose cheers or insults at the 'southern fops'.

Taking a seat again King Robert laughed as he looked at Jon. "You'll be joining me of course lad."

Jon coughed as the ale he was drinking came down in the wrong hole, causing his Robb to pound his back. "Your Grace?" Jon questioned.

"You have to pick up Edric anyway, might as well come to the tourney when you're there, a little sport is just healthy for a young lad like yourself."

Robett Glover took that moment to intercede. "Sport, Your Grace? If we let the wolf here loose on your southern knights, you'll have to send them home in boxes when he's done."

"That true lad?" Robert asked with a laugh.

"You never heard what he's done to those Ironborn fuckers?" Glover asked the King.

King Robert grinned. "Yeah, he gave them a right proper fucking a few years ago, scum had it coming I say."

Most of the men, and a fair amount of the women around the table grinned. "Aye," Robett continued. "But after that, we've been hit more and more by raiders, and I think it is fair to say that Jon the Bloody here has put more of them in the ground than any other man in the North."

"HAH!" the King exclaimed as he pounded a fist on the table. "Jon the Bloody Wolf I hear them call you up here, and as long as you continue to lop off the heads of those squiddies you'll never hear a bad word from me." he said, ignoring how Theon almost kicked away his chair and stomped out of the hall.

"Good riddance." Alys muttered at the Kraken's retreating back.

"I suppose since you asked me so nicely Your Grace I have no choice but to accept your invitation south, but I'll have to see my wife and children properly settled in first."

Robert nodded absently. "Of course, of course, just don't be late."

The King left that very same day, along with most of the northern Lords, a fair few of them following him with the intent of coming south for Prince Joffrey's name day, while a few others stayed, intending to travel south with Jon by horseback.

Jon and Alys themselves stayed another day before heading south towards Moat Cailin. While he had certainly said goodbye to his family before it had never been as hard as it was this time. There was a note of finality to the goodbye this time, as Jon was truly leaving to settle down somewhere else, and only the promise of regular visits or perhaps even letting them stay with him from time to time had managed to disentangle a weeping Arya, Bran and Rickon from his side.

Robb had given him a long hug and told him to beat the shit out of the southrons, eliciting a laugh from Jon and a furious 'LANGUAGE!' from Lady Catelyn, who slapped Robb across the ear.

Sansa had given him a hug and greedily demanded letters and tales from the south, while also warning him to behave (bringing forth contemptuous snorts from the majority of the men and women within hearing range).

With their goodbyes said they left for their new home. They rested at Castle Cerwyn the first night, with Lord Medger more than pleased to host their party (though he still kept a rather sharp eye on Jon, and most likely quite deliberately seated his daughter as far away from Jon as he possibly could without disrespecting her).

Leaving early the following morn, they spent the majority of the day riding, only stopping for a few meals until nightfall where they made camp. Fortunately, it was in the middle of summer so the weather and temperature were quite bearable (for northerners at least), and a roaring fire and warm furs ensured that both little Torrhen and Lyarra both slept soundly, only waking up once at roughly the same time to demand the attention of their wet-nurse. Jon was quite sure that Alys would have indulged them, as she had on more than one occasion, but they were both tired (and if Jon was honest he thought his son and daughter demanded too much time from Alys' teats already) so when he and Alys heard the wet-nurse start fussing they both went back to sleep without complaint.

The ride the next day started to show that they were getting close as the temperature started to rise slightly, and the distinct scent of the marshland of the Neck and surrounding land hit their nostrils. Rolling fields of grass and scattered trees were soon enough replaced with large rice paddies and the men and women working them.

Before long, the walls and towers of Moat Cailin revealed themselves, and Jon felt a sense of pride bloom in his chest as they closed in on the ancient fort. This was his home: the mightiest fortress besides Winterfell itself in the entire North. Where before a half-rotten wooden fort had stood there, was now an intimidating construction of stone. The layout was simple enough: a central, square keep, lacking many windows (for increased structural integrity), with the top of the keep dominated by a sharp, conical roof that left just enough room for proper battlements where men could shoot down from the top. The conical roof and steep angle would help in winter by preventing snow from piling up, meaning that the roof wouldn't collapse under the weight of several hundredweight of snow during a blizzard.

Some sixty feet away from the keep, just before the hill started to slope downwards, stood four round towers/bastions, stretching almost as tall as the keep itself. Forty foot high walls connected each of the bastions with the gatehouse allowing entrance to the northern side of the holdfast. Inside the courtyard there were a variety of buildings: a smithy, several granaries, two barracks, an armory and, the stables were just some of them.

Outside the walls, further down the large hill, stood other buildings that looked for the most part to be primarily housing, and at the foot of the hill, a second curtain wall with accompanying towers were under construction. The lower curtain wall had eight tower bastions evenly spaced apart, each of them with weirwood hoardings at the top. Both the north and the south gates were protected further with a large barbican containing a number of portcullises, murder holes and thick doors of oak.

The men who had led the work to re-fortifying the Moat had certainly known what they were doing, seeing as there was literally no room whatsoever to walk around the walls. No water filled moat had to be built as the natural swampy bog that surrounded it was defense enough. A man could try his luck navigating through the marsh, but chances were high that he would never be seen or heard from again.

Sixty feet from the wall on both east and west side stood a single tower on a small islet of stable ground. Both towers were still under construction, but had reached to a height of forty feet which let them be linked to the main battlements of the curtain wall by way of a stone bridge that spanned the gap between the tower and wall. Overall, twelve towers and the keep ready, along with two sets of walls and gates, with another two towers nearing completion and four more planned, leaving Jon, Alys and their party in awe.

"Slap me thrice and hand me to me mumma." said the Smalljon weakly as he tried to reconcile the image in front of them to the memories he had of its past state.

"If the old Moat was anything like this in its glory days, I'd almost feel respect for the courage of the southerners for daring to attack it." Edd Karstark said with a hint of awe in his voice, only to yelp as Alys smacked him.

"Don't confuse religious zealotry with courage Edd." she chided her brother. "The damn defilers didn't know any better."

If Edd had any reply, it was lost as a column of twenty riders carrying Stark banners rode up to them. Their leader was a man perhaps slightly younger than Jon's uncle who bowed his head while holding a clenched fist over his heart.

"Greetings m'lord Stark, I am Halys, the current Castellan and Captain of the Guard here at Moat Cailin."

"Excellent." Jon said. "My Lady wife Alys." he said as he gestured towards his wife.

"M'lady." Halys said once more, repeating the gesture he had given to Jon.

"Let us ride forth Castellan, you can inform me of the affairs of the castle as we ride."

"As you wish M'lord." Halys said as they resumed their ride.

The majority of their wedding gifts had already arrived, having been sent directly to Moat Cailin instead of being brought to Winterfell. Port towns had been built both at the end of the Fever River about two hours ride from the Moat and near the estuary of the White Knife, and both towns were inhabited by a few thousand men, women and children: fishers for the most part, though the town at the Fever River had also started to build ships, with one galley finished so far and another three on the way.

Also within Jon's demesne were six other towns with a population ranging from about three hundred to almost seven thousand inhabitants, with the majority of them working as either rice or potato farmers, with the northernmost town being the one that held the majority of the livestock in the area as they had access to large fields of grass. The Moat (and his remaining towns) had a garrison of a grand total of two thousand five hundred men at arms, more than any other place in the North with the exception of Winterfell and White Harbor, though with the six hundred men following him, and the men he had been promised from the Vale, he would probably field close to four thousand active men, with about six hundred of them thus far being trained horsemen.

Every single one of the towers held a single ballista for long range warfare, as well as a pair of smaller, but more maneuverable and swifter to reload, scorpions. Inside the castle courtyard stood a trio of trebuchets that were aimed towards the south.

"How many more men do we have capable of bearing arms?" Jon asked as they rode up the hill, having passed the lower gatehouse.

"M'lord?" Halys asked.

"The majority of men serving in armies here in Westeros are peasant levies, men and boys who've barely held a pike in their lives. Moat Cailin is the gate to the south, and the military strongpoint in the North, and even though we have more men than most, we never know when we need call in more to fight, so how many men and boys – above the age of two and ten, I suppose – do we have?" Jon said.

Halys appeared to think hard as he furrowed his brow in thought. "I haven't done a proper survey m'lord, but I suppose another five thousand or so, if we pull in all of them m'lord."

Jon nodded thoughtfully. "Starting from tomorrow you'll be calling in all the men able to fight one town at the time. They'll come here and train hard every day for a period of three months, and then we'll move on to the next town. In addition, every man and boy from age ten and up will spend at least four hours a week practicing his archery."

"F-four hours m'lord!" Halys exclaimed, "I don't think we even have that many longbows."

Jon turned his gaze upon Halys who immediately lowered his. "Barely an hour's ride south of here is an entire forest of yew trees. We have axes aplenty, and we should have enough bowyers in our land to start producing longbows in great quantity, as well as fletcher for arrows."

Halys nodded carefully: it was the truth after all. "But steel m'lord, steel ain't cheap."

Jon sighed. "We live in the largest Kingdom in all of Westeros, as big as all the other Kingdoms combined: do you honestly mean to tell me that with all the mountains we have here in the North that there isn't a single lode of iron to be found?"

Halys reddened, in shame or outrage Jon had no idea. "I see your point m'lord."

Jon nodded grimly. "Good. If we don't have miners then we'll find some, either here in Westeros or in the east, I don't care, but I want production to get going. I have been appointed as Lord and Master of Moat Cailin, and I intend to make the most out of it. We'll build up a surplus of arms, armor, and food alike. For far too long the North has languished, content with the role and life we've had, but no more. I intend to make sure that our people are deserving of being the largest Kingdom in the realm. We are the last of the First Men, we bear thousands of years of history and tradition, and I intend to make sure it lasts." Jon said, and from the proud and determined looks on the faces of the men alongside him they all felt the same.

"I'll see to it that it is done m'lord."

Dismounting in the courtyard Jon, Alys, Edd, Daryn Hornwood, Smalljon Umber, Rodrik Ryswell, and the eldest of their party, Robett Glover, walked into the keep, where they were met by the tantalizing smell of roasted boar and potatoes.

The grand hall, while not as large as the one in Winterfell, still held room for a good two hundred men. A pair of cast iron chandeliers hung from the rafters, and torches flickered merrily on their wall sconces, lighting up the room. It was still sparsely populated, and the only real decorations were the Stark banners that hung on the walls, though Jon could spot several hangers and shelves that could be filled with decorations, which he started by hanging Red Rain on the wall behind where he would sit at the high table.

Speaking quickly to the cook who introduced herself, Jon spread his arms to his guests and the higher ranking guards and retainers who had entered with him as a quartet of serving boys came in carrying bowls of bread and salt.

"Welcome my friends. I hereby offer you bread and salt according to guest right, and meat and mead from my table. Now, let us feast and make merry as tomorrow we ride south to show the southerners that the men of the North will not be forgotten."

"LONG LIVE THE NORTH!" The words were yelled almost in unison by over a hundred voices as men and women raised their tankards above their heads before drinking. The feast lasted long into the night, as no one wanting to be the first one to leave (thus opening themselves to being mocked for a lacking stamina), and Jon and Alys were introduced to the various members of their household.

Most of them seemed competent in their duties, and both Jon and Alys felt that they would get on well with them. An exception was the chief smith, a rather surly old man who had three young buys working for him that he claimed were apprentices. He was not at all pleased when Jon told him that their educations and his own duties would be taken over by Gendry… that is, not until Gendry made a passing comment about how he had apprenticed under Tohbo Mott in King's Landing. The smith was rather more subservient after that, and warmed up a bit after he learned that he would still have his hands full with plenty of work.

Maester Rolland was quite young for a Maester (barely one and twenty), but he was quite well learned, having forged links in ravenry, arithmetic, construction, medicine and healing, economics, and history. He also explained with a laugh how he had been assigned to Moat Cailin as 'punishment' after calling one of the Archmaesters a 'fat whoring pillow-biter,' and that the Archmaester in question had told him that he would be assigned to the crumbling ruin Moat Cailin as the first Maester to go there in over a thousand years. Jon and Alys shared a snigger with the generally rambunctious young Maester at that.

It was close to the hour of the Wolf before the feast started to break up, with servants and maids already familiar with the layout of the place guiding the Lords to guest quarters while Jon and Alys were led to the top of their keep where their quarters were. A pair of guards stood on either side of the double doors that led into a large room that was evidently a cross between a private dining room and solar. One of the doors led to a small indoor privy, another led to a surprisingly large bathroom, while the last door led to their bedchamber. As with the rest of the castle it was sparsely decorated beyond the bare necessities, though the grand bed and fine furs and sheets were promising at least, and Jon and Alys eagerly decided to break in the bed proper after hurriedly undressing.

"You better win that blasted tourney or I'll never forgive you." Alys mumbled sleepily as she cuddled his chest afterwards.

"Oh?" Jon asked amused as he raised an eyebrow.

"As your wife it is my task to run this household, including the decorating, and we cannot decorate without gold."

Jon chuckled slightly. "What a terrible husband I would be if I was not willing to cater to my wife's desire to add some color to our new home."

Alys raised her head slightly and grinned at him before closing her eyes and laying her head down at his chest again. "It seems you can be trained after all husband. Who would have thought?"

Had he not been so tired Jon would probably have enjoyed continuing the verbal sparring, but as it was, he just wanted to sleep. "Goodnight Alys." he said as he closed his own eyes. From the soft snores he received in return he knew that his wife was already asleep.


	5. Jon you are never going south again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of rather descriptive violence in this one.

** Disclaimer: Not mine as usual. **

** Winterfell 297 AC. Catelyn. **

Catelyn Tully was a very happy woman, and had been for some time actually. Seventeen wonderful years she'd had with her beloved Ned and life almost couldn't have been better. She had a wonderful husband who respected her opinions, treasured her, had given her five wonderful children, and was very satisfactory in bed.

When she first arrived in the North and Winterfell, she had been afraid, uncertain, and lastly furious at Ned for returning home with a bastard (even though it wasn't his). With the exception of a few maids she brought with her, she was all alone in the cold North, though Ned having a sept built for her, as well as the arrival of a septa, had gone a long way to improving her life.

Still, even if the northerners had some reservations about her for being a southerner (like she held for them for being northerners) they (and she) kept their reservations silent, and slowly but surely she earned the respect of the northerners, especially after the birth of Arya, who had all the Stark traits, like her (at the time) bastard brother. Bran and Rickon being born fully cemented her place as the Lady of Winterfell as she had given Ned both an heir and two spares, and a pair of daughters to wed away one day.

Truly the only point of contention between her and Ned had been Jon Snow, now Stark. She still shook her head at how long it had taken her to realize that the boy was Brandon's get, but then, she was not the only one to have fallen to the lie, although it must be said that most of the northern Lords had figured it out long before her. Ever since she had laid eyes on the dark haired and grey eyed boy she had feared that Ned would one day set all her children aside and raise the bastard as his heir and next Lord of Winterfell, fears that had only grown as the boy got older.

If she was honest with herself, Ned letting Jon partake in Robb's lessons had not eased her worries, and as she saw how skilled the boy was becoming with a blade, she became even more worried. Of course, after the boy was caught dishonoring Rodrik Cassel's youngest daughter, she had finally thought that she had her victory, as Ned finally agreed to send the boy away for fostering, only for it to backfire somewhat spectacularly.

The incident at Castle Cerwyn wasn't too damaging (for either of them) but his time with the Mormonts, the not-so-small raid he led, and the continuous actions against wildlings and Ironborn raiders afterward had cemented his reputation and growing legend, and even people in the south were beginning to take notice of him.

Learning the truth after all that had been a relief in all honestly. She knew that Ned would never put his brother's children before their own, and with the King himself formally acknowledging the boy as Lord of Moat Cailin, the succession for Winterfell was as secure as could be. While she did somewhat resent that Jon was given Moat Cailin over one of her own sons, she saw the wisdom in having a warrior of Jon's caliber guarding the entrance to the North. Another thing that was comforting to her was that he was far enough away now and with a wife and children of his own that he was not likely to visit Winterfell at every given opportunity (like he did when he stayed with the Cerwyns).

Truly, the weeks since he had left to attend Prince Joffrey's name day tourney had been some of the most soothing she had ever experienced since coming North. She and Ned also found more time to spend with another (that did not involve arguing about Jon), and with the exception of Arya, Bran and Rickon (and to some extent Robb and Sansa) asking for news or sometimes mentioning how they missed him (not an altogether unfamiliar activity), things were good. The bastard was gone, her children were safe and learning, her relationship with Ned was excellent, and Jon was far to the south where he couldn't trouble her family any longer.

Praising Sansa for the wonderful embroidery she had done on her newest dress, the calm of the sewing room was shattered as Ned's voice roared in fury (or resignation), and she felt a pit of ice settle in her stomach. That particular shout was reserved for one person, and one person only. Steeling herself for yet another long evening of arguing over her nephew's latest foolish stunt she hurried through the corridors of Winterfell until finally entering her husband's solar.

The first one she spotted was Maester Luwin who sat pale and shivering on a chair, clearly shocked. Ser's Rodrik and Jory looked impressed, worried, amused and resigned all at once, while her beloved Ned was striding back and forth like a caged animal, pinching the bridge of his nose while muttering obscenities under his breath that would probably shock even someone of King Robert's caliber.

"Ned?" she asked slowly, causing Ned to turn his gaze upon hers. "What's the boy done now?" she asked, finally causing Jory – and soon after Rodrik – to crack up, both of them shaking with laughter.

"When I get my hands on that boy..." Ned muttered. "He should have been drowned at birth, the bloody menace."

That statement got her attention. Raising an eyebrow she looked at Maester Luwin. "I know it must seem strange for me of all people to defend the boy, but surely he can't have gotten into that much trouble?"

Luwin opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, obviously at a loss for words, while Jory and Rodrik just laughed harder.

With a shaking hand Ned handed her a letter that she saw held the seal of the Hand of the King, and already at the second line she felt her knees go faint. By the time she was finished with the letter she agreed wholeheartedly. The blasted menace should have been drowned at birth, or put out north of the Wall… if she wasn't certain that he would still have been a menace if they had done that.

** Three weeks earlier: **

The trip to King's Landing had been quite exciting, Jon thought. He was used to the cold North, where civilization was… well, perhaps not as sparse as most would think, but definitely spread out much more, seeing as the kingdom was almost as large as the rest of Westeros combined. Where, in the North, you could travel for days without coming across a single inn or town, it seemed to be the exact opposite in the Riverlands.

Every few hours they came across a small village or town. The Kingsroad itself was far busier than he'd thought it would be (despite its poor condition) as smallfolk and even the occasional knight were encountered, most of which appeared to be going in the same direction as him: towards King's Landing. Prince Joffrey's name day shaped up to be perhaps the grandest event in years, and knights, Lords, and Poor Fellows alike all seemed intent on getting there in search of riches and glory, or to hawk their wares.

What had started out as a relatively small company consisting of Jon, Harrion Karstark, Daryn Hornwood, Gawen and his father Robett Glover, Wendel Manderly (keeping a very watchful eye on his niece Wynafryd), Smalljon Umber, Ben, Hugo and Theon Norrey, and a pair of guards from each house, had eventually turned into a company of nearly three hundred mounted men (and Jon thanked his lucky stars for refusing to let old Walder Frey, who was riding in a wheelhouse, and his sons, from accompanying them on the ride ahead).

Jon had barely woken up the first morning after he moved to Moat Cailin before Maester Rolland came to him swearing up a storm about how the 'Late Lord' Frey had sent no less than a dozen riders to ask for Jon to take half a dozen of his sons to squire, as well as mentioning none to courteously that Walder had more than enough children, grandchildren and so on and so forth, both young and old who were in need of wives or husbands and were not insulted at marrying someone who came from bastard background.

While Jon had come this close to throwing the bloody weasels into the dungeons, he had wizened up as he spotted the cold look of absolute fury at Alys' face and left the entire affair to her. He had stayed long enough to confirm his goodbrother Eddard as the new Master of Arms, eat a hearty breakfast, say goodbye to his children, and fuck Alys up against the wall in their chambers before he left.

His party had encountered Walder Frey's wheelhouse perhaps a good five or so hours ride south of the Twins, and they sped by as fast as they could (dutifully ignoring the continuously repeated hails and offer of sharing the road). The Smalljon, who himself had received more than one offer for a 'fair' Frey bride over the years, had stopped just long enough to fell one of the large trees at the side of the Kingsroad, and once Jon and the rest of them realized what he was doing, they all merrily joined in, not only to kill some time, but also to further the inconvenience of Walder Frey. They had more than one good laugh as they imagined old Walder's furious face while his sons tried to remove the trees.

Every night they'd stop at an inn for a meal and drink (though after trying the ale and beer from the Riverlands they all thanked the Old Gods that they had a good supply of northern mead with them to last them for the journey, and Jon swore if he ever had to see, or more importantly taste, fish again in his life it would be too soon). Of course not everything was perfect.

They had been offered hearth at Castle Darry, and had it not been for the respect Jon had for Guest Right, he would probably have attempted to cut Lord Ryman Darry down in his own hall after listening to the fucker wax poetically about the Targaryen's (as well as spotting the Targaryen banners still hanging on his walls) for over an hour. As it was, Jon confined himself to coldly mentioning how the Targaryens had been kind and wise enough to considerately burn his grandfather alive, kidnap and rape his aunt (probably to death), and force his own father to strangle himself as he was forced to watch his father die. He then tipped over the table he was seated at (with the help of the other Northmen, who weren't exactly pleased either), spat on Lord Darry's plate, and marched out with a flagon of Dornish red in his arm to sleep underneath the stars.

Finally, they came to King's Landing (which they smelt long before they saw), a huge city that stretched on for miles, with their company headed directly for the Dragon Gate. The city itself was protected by tall walls, towers, and on each of the three hills named after the conqueror and his sister wives, Jon could spot the impressive buildings that called the hilltops home. The closest was the massive Dragon Pit, which, while ruined, still dwarfed any structure around it, and still managed to inspire some feeling of majesty and power, and Jon felt a curious calmness, a sense of belonging and entitlement as he laid eyes on the ruined dragon palace. He felt it even more so as he laid eyes on the Red Keep, which was situated in the southeast corner of the city, perched on the outcropping cliffs, with separate level of defenses (he spotted no less than three gates that one would have to pass to reach the throne room or Maegor's holdfast). For an army, it was assailable only from within the city itself, though as he laid eyes on the steep cliffs that led up to the walls, he conceded that a man with big enough balls could probably try to sneak his way in if he had some rope and a pair of good climbing spikes, though he pitied the fool who would entertain such a notion.

As soon as they passed the Dragon Gate, the company split up until it was only Jon and the Northmen (and Robar Royce and his father Yohn and half a dozen guards who had joined the party just hours earlier) left.

"I suppose you know where to go Lord Royce?" Jon asked the elder Lord (a good friend of his fa-uncle).

"Hmm, we shall have to find ourselves an inn, though considering the lateness of the day, not to mention the fact that the Tourney starts on the morrow, we'll have to resign ourselves to the inns close to Flea Bottom.

Grimacing slightly, Jon nodded. He and everyone else had heard of the biggest slum in Westeros. It was a large shantytown of rickety, degraded houses stacked close, and often on top of each other. While most smallfolk would rather live outdoors, there was little that could be done about it, for the law of the King held little sway there, and on the rare occasions the Gold Cloaks entered Flea Bottom, they did so in force.

Finally, after encountering one full inn after another, they found a few that were not full very close to Flea Bottom, though they would have to spread themselves out between them as none had enough room for all of them.

Mindful of his duty, Jon handed over six silver stags to each of his own men. "These are to last for room and board for the entirety of our stay here." he told them as he handed out the coins. "So I will not be pleased if any of you come begging me for more coin because you spent them on whores is that understood?"

"Yes m'lord." they answered in unison as they scattered to the winds, and Jon just knew that by the time they left, his men would most likely be not only hungry, but also dirty after having spent days sleeping outside. At least it should serve as a lesson.

After spreading out, Jon, Smalljon, Harrion, Torrhen, and Daryn found rooms at the same inn, and if it wasn't for the fact that there was quite literally nowhere else to sleep Jon would have refused. At eight copper stars per night, he got a room that was smaller than a cupboard with filthy sheets stuffed with hay, and one meal which consisted of a bowl of brown (a dish he had been warned to stay away from), which Jon considered to be comparable to highway robbery. Refusing to sleep in the nasty bed, Jon had simply stacked it up against a wall and unfurled his sleep roll (a large bear pelt) and decided to sleep in his armor with his traveling cloak over himself as a blanket.

That would all come later of course, as they still had a good few hours before it was time to sleep, so Jon and his friend had instead decided to sample the various taprooms on their street. And while the alcohol was atrocious, it did get the job done as they (and the rest of the city) got increasingly drunk. Of course, when you have quite literally thousands of extra knights, Lords, and their guards/servants/squires in the same city (which is already overcrowded), and you add in large quantities of alcohol, fragile egos, and the odd semi-serious blood feud, and the city becomes a tinderbox. Mix in Jon and a bunch of drunken Northmen, whose distaste for the southerners could easily be misconstrued as arrogance, and you're one spark away from a disaster.

It had all started in the eleventh taproom (and sixteenth ale or so). Harrion had made a rather tasteless joke concerning the Smalljon's… smalljon, which was overheard by a tall drunkard whose only words Jon had understood were that this was his first time getting truly drunk, and that he despised his brother (at least Jon thought he meant brother. It was hard to tell due to how the man was slurring his words). Jon knew the man was a Lord, or highly paid knight from the Stormlands, as he was escorted by a pair of guards in Stormlander gear, not to mention that he looked somewhat similar to the King (who was a Stormlander himself), though far less fat and more handsome, proving to Jon that men from the Stormlands had their own distinct 'features,' just as many northerners did.

Anyhow, the man had become curious at the mention of the Smalljon's reputed small (or big) 'jon,' and promptly shoved his hand into the trousers of the heir of Last Hearth and gave a good fondle. For a moment, Jon looked around in confusion to find the woman who shrieked, only to realize that it was the Smalljon himself, who had roared out the most feminine shriek Jon had heard this side of Catelyn Tully, dutifully kicked the Stormlander in the stones, before following up with a head-butt, and finishing by grabbing the now insensate drunken Stormlander and physically tossing him over the bar and into the kegs of ale behind it, causing them to shatter and dousing the man in booze. At least, Jon reflected, the man didn't feel the pain in his wedding tackle, as the Smalljon's head-butt had sent him to bed early.

Of course, the man's guads, after seeing one of their knight (or Lord) get the 'Umber Treatment,' as it was known in the North, were incensed and threw themselves towards the Smalljon. That would have been it had it not been for the fact that one of them tripped and crashed onto a table of Westermen (the Lannister cloaks gave them away) and spilled their drinks.

Outraged, the Red-cloaked men had beaten upon the Stormlander with their goblets and fists, and one even tried to bite his ear off. In a panic, the man drew his dagger and opened one of the men's' throats, and from there on it was complete chaos as everyone got involved in the fight, with alliances forming and breaking within minutes as men from all over Westeros reduced the tap house to a wreck in scant minutes before spilling out into the streets.

Jon himself gave as good as he got. He and his fellow Northmen all collected a fine collection of bruises, black eyes, bloody fists, and in the Smalljon's case, a busted lip. Harrion, who was the most sober of them, managed to convince them of the need to escape and dutifully led them to where a score of horses stamped nervously tied up outside another tavern. Naturally, things worsened from there.

What started off as five Northmen 'borrowing' five horses turned into a drunken horse race through the winding maze that was King's Landing that lasted for hours and sparked more than one brawl as people were pushed aside (and into others who took personal insult at being shoved by unsuspecting bystanders). It took them nearly three hours before they made it back to their inn, which was thankfully spared the majority of the fights as Gold Cloaks were already moving towards Flea Bottom, where the hardest of the brawling was happening.

As soon as the last Gold Cloak disappeared, the Northmen chuckled nervously. "What are the chances that my uncle won't hear about this and suspect me you think?" Jon asked Harrion, who looked at him for a second as if he had gone mad before snorting contemptuously.

"I thought so." Jon said with a sigh as he hung his head.

Dismounting, they sent their horses away and walked into the now almost dark inn, with only five candles still burning but most of the people asleep, only to be met with a sight that sent Jon's blood roaring in fury.

At the bar the innkeeper stood with tears flowing down his face as he begged and pleaded while a knife was held to his throat. The man holding the knife was a heavyset older man with grey hair and beard and a sick grin on his face.

The reason for the innkeeper's pleading was clear: in the center of the room, a young girl, who could only be his daughter was being violently fucked by a tall man with a scraggly black beard and almost bald head. The rapist was laughing and grunting as his pushed himself in and out of the struggling and sobbing girl, and was almost strangling her with how hard he had his left hand clenched around her throat. From the partially undressed state of four other men who stood laughing and jeering, Jon concluded that the girl had probably been at their mercy for some time already.

Without even thinking Jon had drawn Red Rain, and the blade lived up to its name as it carved straight through the neck of the man raping the young girl, separating his head from his shoulders in a shower of blood. Before the men could even fathom what had happened, Daryn, who appeared to be of a like mind as Jon, had surged forward and planted his own sword through the neck of the man holding the innkeeper hostage, causing him to fall to the ground with a panicked gurgle as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his throat.

"Oi, o' the fuck you think you are?" a reedy dark haired man said as he fumbled for the dagger on his waist.

Stepping over the corpse of the man he had beheaded, Jon held out his sword towards the remaining four. "I am Jon Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin. Now, I'd like to know the names of the men who are about to lose their cocks or their heads." Jon stated.

"Ser won't like this, fuck me bloody with a fucking spear, Ser won't fucking like this at all." another one of them muttered, this one with greying hair and ill kept beard.

"We the Mountain's men." the reedy fellow said as he jutted out his chest as if that was supposed to impress. "Ser's gonna carve you bloody 'e is."

Jon blanched slightly at that. Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides, was the only one he knew of who was called the Mountain, and he had a rather fearsome reputation. Still, alcohol can make even the wisest of men into completely witless scoundrels. "Then I suppose the Mountain can explain himself in person to the King as to why I had to kill or unman four of his men."

The four rapists shared a glance before they all broke out in full sprint. The one with the foul mouth was cleaved from stem to stern with a single slice when he tried to jump Jon. The reedy looking fellow who had tried to threaten Jon wisely jumped through the window and disappeared into the night. The last two men sobbed, begged and pleaded as they were grabbed and held immobile by Daryn, Torrhen, Harrion and the Smalljon while Jon sliced off their trousers and then their manhoods.

"Throw this filth out into the streets." he growled, and watched in satisfaction as the four furious Northmen threw the wailing scum out the door before closing it. "For you." Jon said as he fished out a pair of gold dragons from his pouch and handed it to the innkeeper who was rocking his daughter back and forth, trying to comfort her. "I am sorry I couldn't do more." he said. This wasn't exactly true, of course, but a pair of gold dragons was probably almost as much as the man made in a year.

"Th-thank you m'lord Stark." he said as he and his daughter stared at the pair of gold coins with awe.

"I'll see you on the morrow my friends." Jon said as he walked to his room and fell asleep as soon as his back hit the pelt he used as a bedroll.

He felt as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all before the door to his room was smashed open by a pair of Gold Cloaks. "Get up Lord Stark, you've wanted in the throne room."

Shaking the cobwebs out of his mind, Jon followed the two Gold Cloaks out of the tavern and into the street where the rest of his fellow Northmen waited. From the looks of them, they too had not been spared last night's scuffle, with the exception of Lady Wynafryd, though from how her uncle Wendel looked, it appeared he had taken the blows meant for her… not that he seemed to mind too much as he gave Jon a grin that lacked several teeth as soon as he spotted him.

"What a night eh Jon?" he asked with a laugh.

"Could have been worse," Jon replied with a grin, "though I doubt the Norrey's agrees with us." From the muttered curses the three mountain clansmen exclaimed, Jon knew he had hit the nail on the head with that statement. The three Norrey's looked to have spared their bodies from injury by using their faces as shields, with Ben Norrey, the one who looked fittest of them, having a broken nose and both eyes almost swollen shut.

As they were lead through the streets of King's Landing towards the Red Keep, Jon swallowed nervously as he got a much better look at the devastation of the night. Everywhere he turned his head he could spot smashed doors or market stalls. Several buildings had burnt down completely, and various debris cluttered the streets, with a large part of it being what looked suspiciously like chair or table legs (and the odd lamppost) that had no doubt been used as temporary clubs. Eventually, they were lead into the Red Keep, all the way up to the massive hall that contained the throne room.

The room itself was massive, and filled almost to capacity by various knights and Lords, many of who looked rather disheveled, and many of who glared balefully at the Northmen. At the end of the room on a raised dais stood the monstrosity known as the Iron Throne, upon which sat King Robert, who tried his best to look grim and serious, though with how his beard was twitching Jon had a feeling the King was somewhat amused. Seated daintily on a small chair beside the Iron Throne sat a woman who could only be the Queen. Had it not been for how her face was red and twisted in rage (a look Jon was all too familiar with seeing from Lady Catelyn) he might have considered her to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Such as it was, she looked more constipated than beautiful.

All seven of the Kingsguard were present, and two of them were supporting a rather beat up man wearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Come to think of it, he looked remarkably like the man the Smalljon beat black and blue for fondling his cock. Stopping a good twenty feet from the throne, Jon and his compatriots all fell to one knee with bowed heads.

"Your Grace." they spoke in unison.

The King held his tongue for a moment before gesturing them to stand. "I've called you here to answer for a rather grievous list of crimes Lord Stark." King Robert said as he accepted a sheet of parchment from Jon Arryn. "It says here that you and your companions assaulted my brother Renly last night, assaulted two knights in his service, started a riot that swept through half the city, and organized a drunken horse race. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Jon swallowed for a moment as his mind worked a mile a minute before he had an epiphany. "I was just following your example, Your Grace." Jon said humbly, causing Jon Arryn, Yohn Royce, and Robett Glover to each smack their foreheads in resignation, while a large amount of the others in court gasped in shock.

"What in the seven hells are you talking about?" the King asked with narrowed eyes.

"We were all drunk, your brother Lord Renly even more so as barely one word in ten of his was decipherable, when he suddenly shoved his hand down the Smalljon's breeches and fondled his cock." Jon ignored the gasps and vehement denials before throwing Lord Renly an olive branch. "Surely Lord Renly did so on accident, but the fact remains that he did do so. Now I don't know about anyone else here, but I am pretty sure you, as well as I, would clobber any man who did such a thing."

There was general murmuring of agreement as most men saw the point, and Jon continued. "Now, when Lord Renly's guards went to help him, one of them stumbled into a table of Lannister soldiers, who tried to beat the guard to death before. In response, he opened the throat of one of them, and by that time it was too late to stop anything as the situation descended into chaos. It was a misunderstanding Your Grace, one taken much farther than it should have been."

The King glared at his brother, who was trying (and failing) to keep his gaze at the floor. "Is this true Renly?" he asked

Lord Renly flinched, causing Robert to swear loudly. "Seeing as my own brother was the one who set the whole thing in motion I have no choice but to-" was as far as he got before the door to the throne room slammed open and in walked a monster of a man. He was near eight feet tall, clad from head to toe in thick steel plate, and held a sword almost as long as Jon was tall in one hand. Behind the mountain that was Gregor Clegane walked a familiar looking reedy dark haired man.

"You're the cunt who killed my men!" Clegane snarled as he advanced towards Jon.

"He's a murderer, guards arrest him!" screeched the Queen.

"ENOUGH!" Robert bellowed. Fortunately, The Mountain stopped, while Queen Cersei glared angrily at her husband.

"Robert." she started, but her husband silenced her with a furious look.

"I said enough, woman. I'll find out the truth of these accusations before doing anything."

"That won't be necessary." Jon said as he glared at the Queen and Clegane in turn. "I heard how the Queen reacted last time someone threw accusations at me, so seeing as how there is such a bias against me, and particularly since she is defending her father's pet monster, I have no choice but to let the Gods decide my fate." He smirked slightly as he saw the shocked, worried, or even encouraging looks on the faces around him. Jon turned his gaze back on the Queen and gave a grin that was anything but humorous. "I demand Trial by Combat!"

The room was so silent you could have heard a pin drop before Clegane shouted. "I ACCEPT!"

"You sure about this lad?" the King asked. "You wanna fight the Mountain?"

"I'm not gonna fight him." Jon said, causing the King to let out a relieved sigh, believing Jon would choose a champion. "I'm gonna kill him, and when I'm done, the whole of Westeros will know that false knights like Clegane here will get what's coming to them, even if the fucking Seven and their corrupt Septons are unwilling to do anything."

The King looked pleadingly with Jon for a moment, as he doublessly had no desire to send Ned Stark a letter informing him of Jon's death, but seeing as both Jon had issued the challenge, and Clegane accepted, he had little choice but to agree. "Very well. The trial will take place at midday in the tourney grounds."

Receiving permission to leave, Jon hurried out of the keep while his fellow Northmen tried to dissuade him

"You've fucking lost your mind Jon." Daryn said after everyone else had tried (and failed) to get Jon to renege on the duel, flee, or pick a champion. Jon himself didn't say a word until they made it to the tourney grounds, stopping only briefly to purchase a bag of salt.

"What are you doing?" Torrhen asked as Jon put a glass bottle on a metal plate and started to smash and grind it up with a rock.

"Getting an advantage," Jon answered as he continued to grind the glass shards until it was little more than dusty flakes comparable to loose snow, which he then poured gently into another empty bottle.

"Ingenious." Yohn Royce said as he realized what Jon was up to.

"Jon." Harrion said worriedly. "Please rethink this, it's the fucking Mountain. I don't want to inform Alys that she's a widow."

"She won't be, not today at any rate." Jon said as he started to examine his armor, making sure that everything was fastened properly. "Tell me Harr, what is it that makes the Mountain so fearsome?"

"Well there is his strength." Harrion said.

"Yes, he's tremendously strong, and that's what's gonna get him killed today." His friends all looked skeptical, and even Lord Royce seemed to find fault at his statement, causing Jon to sigh. "Hold this." he said as he shoved a blunted tourney sword into the Smalljon's hand. As soon as the Umber held the blade in a tight grip, Jon drew Red Rain, and in one fast and hard strike, cut straight through the piece of steel, leaving the Smalljon with a sword hilt and three inches of unsharpened blade above the cross guard.

"Fuck me." said the Smalljon as he stared at what used to be a wholly usable tourney blade.

"Now that was with you just holding the blade still, imagine the bloody Mountain swinging his own sword, which is also far thinner than what you held at me."

"Bloody troll is gonna find himself without a weapon." Yohn Royce muttered approvingly.

"Exactly." Jon said as he finished readying his gear by sheathing a dagger and placing a small bearded axe into his belt.

"I assume you won't be bothering with a shield." Yohn's son Robar asked as he went over the straps and latches on Jon's armor to check that Jon hadn't missed anything.

"No need." Jon said. "All it would give me would be a broken arm."

The stands were starting to fill up rapidly now and at the other end of the tourney field Jon could see Clegane pacing angrily; the eight foot tall mountain of steel and muscle was itching to start the fight early.

"I still think this is a bad idea Jon." Harrion said in one last attempt to dissuade him.

"Clegane is far more infamous than he has any right to be. Sure he is strong," Jon said quickly to cut off any retort, "but the only kills he has confirmed to his name are a babe still at the breast, the babe's heartbroken and defenseless mother, and a few Ironborn raiders on their last legs on Pyke."

"That may be Jon, but he's still dangerous." Harrion said.

Jon looked into his goodbrother's eyes for a moment. "So am I brother, so am I."

"CHAMPIONS TAKE YOUR PLACES!" The High Septon himself had apparently decided to officiate, and Jon and Clegane both stepped forward until the stood twenty feet apart.

"Lord Stark, stand ye ready?" The Septon asked Jon, who grabbed Red Rain with both hands and nodded while giving his much larger opponent a stony glare. As he did, he focused on his breathing, in and out, until he could feel his senses heighten, and could almost hear every individual heartbeat, and he barely noticed the High Septon asking Clegane the same question.

Clegane looked at the High Septon a brief moment before angrily throwing off his helmet, causing Jon to grin. Jon had deliberately chosen his position, as he had the sun at his back, forcing Clegane to either fight blind, as the sun would obscure what little vision he had in his narrow slit helmet, or fight without its protection. Jon himself was wearing his wolf head helmet, and as soon as the High Septon yelled "BEGIN," he surged forward only to swiftly recoil as Clegane lashed out with his sword much swifter than a man his size had any right to. Almost immediately afterward, another swing came whistling just over Jon's head as he ducked just in time while withdrawing further backwards in order to keep distance between himself and the Mountain. Jon diverted another three strikes before he was sure of Clegane's method. Stepping inside Clegane's next swing Jon lashed out with all his might. It worked better than he had expected as Clegane tried to block at the last minute and Red Rain cut through the blade at an angle, straight through the cross guard and on, carving through Clegane's hand and removing three of his fingers.

The inhumanly loud scream of pain almost deafened Jon, who ducked low to avoid the instinctual lash out that he knew was coming. Sure enough, Clegane's left fist moved through the space that Jon's head had occupied just moments before. Without breaking stride Jon grabbed the bottle at his waist and smashed it at Clegane's face while closing his eyes. As soon as he heard the bottle break he ducked low and rolled to the right before standing up ready to defend himself, an action that proved unnecessary as Clegane screamed in pain and fury as he clawed at his face. The tiny glass shards in the bottle had gotten into his eyes, and Jon doubted the giant warrior could even see. Feeling a bloodthirsty grin creep over his face, Jon stepped slowly behind Clegane, who was lashing out blindly and swing with all his might, and sent the massive warrior to the ground as the Valyrian blade in his hand carved through both of Clegane's legs above the knees.

While Clegane writhed on the ground, trying to turn himself over onto his back, Jon stepped closer and drove his sword through first Clegane's right, and them the left shoulder blade. He had intended to end it then and there, but when he spotted the young woman who had been raped by Clegane's men, he wondered how many others had faced the same fate, either at the hands of Clegane himself, or his men. Just like the Red Keep, the Dragon Pit, and the Iron Throne sent his blood racing, so too did the name and form of Clegane send his temper into overdrive, and as his mind went over the many creative ways to end the monster, it finally settled on a suitable punishment, and he finally understood why he had purchased salt earlier that day. Some fancy sword work (that left a few more slice on The Mountain) let Jon rip off the plates and mail protecting Clegane's back. Removing his own helmet, Jon let everyone see the humorless grin on his face as he seated himself on Clegane's lower back, and with his dagger in hand he slowly went to work.

They said the best of the Boltons could flay a man alive in less than five minutes, and while Jon respected his uncle enough to not flay a man, it did not mean there were no other almost as terrible punishments. Taking his sweet time, Jon enjoyed how Clegane writhed and screamed in agony as Jon carved into his back, until he swapped out his knife with the short axe he always carried with him. Seizing the uppermost rib on Clegane's left side, Jon let the axe swing down, and the sound of bone snapping was barely audible as Clegane tried in vain to shake Jon off. Three and twenty times more Jon's axe rose and fell, and each fall was accompanied by the sound of another rib breaking until all of them had snapped. Sheathing his weapons, Jon pulled the ribs outwards and then pulled the lungs out of the body and laid them to rest on top of the splayed ribs and flesh in a gory rendition of a pair of wings, before finally opening the pouch of salt at his waist and smearing it all over Clegane's lungs and open wounds.

Standing up, Jon, who was drenched in blood, let his gaze wander, and as far as he could see, men and women stared in horrified shock at what had happened. A fair few seemed to have lost their most recent meal, or even fainted, and Jon almost spat in disgust. At the beginning of the fight (and before it), people had talked or cheered in anticipation, and now that they had the blood they had been clamoring for, they were in shock. "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?" Jon roared as he spread his arms and paced around Clegane who had finally stopped screaming, his breath coming in short gasps as his lungs rapidly expanded and contracted. "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?" He yelled again as he threw the severed right foot of Clegane into the crowd. Suddenly, the stands exploded in cheers as people jumped up and down, and some even cried in relief, while a great many others laughed, jeered, or threw insults at the Queen and the Kingslayer.

As for the Queen herself, Jon had never seen anyone so furious before. Meanwhile her brother looked distinctly uncomfortable, and the gloating, superior look he had given Jon earlier was now gone. King Robert was laughing as if he had seen the most amusing thing in his life, continually saying "Balls of fucking steel eh Barristan?" before collapsing into laughter again. Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard was also highly impressed and gave Jon a thankful nod.

"THE GODS HAVE MADE THEIR WILL CLEAR!" the High Septon's voice boomed. "HE IS HEREBY DECLARED INNOCENT OF THE CHARGES AGAINST HIM!"

Then King Robert stood up. "While I am sure you would have won it, I can safely say there will be nothing even close to this in the melee, so I am hereby proclaiming you as the Champion of the Melee and granting you the winnings from it. Report back at the Royal Pavilion for your prize, Lord Stark."

Looking behind him, Jon saw Clegane give out a last, shuddering breath before his form lay still. Walking over to his friends, who all stared at him dumbfounded, Jon let out a bark of laughter. "I bloody well told you I would kill him didn't I?"

They all blinked for a moment before they laughed and swarmed him, either pulling him into a hug or slapping his back.

"So what now?" the Smalljon asked.

Jon led them over to Clegane's corpse, and with a swing of his sword, removed his head from his shoulders. "Bag the head. I've got a great spike for it back home."

The Northmen grinned only to suddenly kneel. "Your Grace." they said in unison, causingJon to turn before swiftly repeated the gesture as the King stood before him along with two Baratheon men who guarded a big chest on a cart.

"Rise Lord Stark." he said and then pulled Jon into a hug. "Fuck me bloody boy, I haven't seen anything like that all my life, what do you call it?" he asked as he gestured to the macabre sight of Clegane's gory back.

"It's called the Blood Eagle, Your Grace: an ancient punishment in the North, though it has long since fallen into disuse. I figured it was time that someone beside The North Remembers, and whenever they hear the name Stark from now on, they'll remember that Lions are not the only ones whose fangs or claws are long and sharp."

Robert laughed as he slapped Jon on the back. "I'd love for you to stay until the end of the tourney lad, but given the state of things it would probably be best for you to head back to the North. Cersei is furious beyond belief, Tywin is gonna want your head until he cools down some… hells, even Baelish is fucking angry at you."

"Baelish, Your Grace?" Jon questioned.

"Never mind him, he's just pissed that half a dozen of his whorehouses were ruined or even burnt down… that and he lost a thousand dragons on you today."

Jon grinned. "So, I never got to ask, how much was my winnings?"

"You'll receive twenty thousand dragons for winning the melee." Robert said, causing Jon to stumble at the obscene amount. He doubted even Lord Wyman Manderly, who was the richest man in the North, had ever had that much at once before.

"Th-thank you, Your Grace," Jon stammered before suddenly remembering something. "What about Edric Your Grace?"

Robert swore. "I'll have him take a ship up to White Harbor; no doubt Lord Manderly will welcome him and provide an escort to your home from there. Now, if you follow my men here, they'll take you down to the port so you can take a ship to the North today… And stay there for a few years before you decide to come south again." the King finished with a laugh before stumbling away, shouting for wine.

"Well." Jon said. "I think we can safely say that it's not just the North that Remembers now, eh?"

** Present time: **

"You mean to tell me that this letter speaks the truth Ned?" Cat asked.

"I swear Cat, if it didn't bear the seal and signature of both Robert and Jon Arryn I wouldn't believe it myself.

Cat swallowed as she gathered her thoughts. "What in the name of the Seven made the boy decide to go up against Gregor Clegane, and to kill him in such a brutish method? No wonder that Tywin Lannister is demanding reparations."

Ned growled angrily. "He can demand as much as he likes. It was a perfectly legal Trial by Combat, and if anyone deserved the Blood Eagle, it was Clegane."

"And what about this riot that he started in King's Landing?"

Ned sighed. "For once it wasn't Jon who actually started it, though he was certainly a participant in it. And can you honestly say you're surprised?"

Catelyn let out a long suffering sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'll never understand that boy. I mean, does trouble go looking for him, or does he actively seek it out as a way to spite us?"

Ned shrugged helplessly. "It certainly seems to know where he is most of the time, though with his parents I cannot say I am surprised either."

Cat nodded sadly. Even now, months after she had learnt the truth, she still felt flashes of dislike, if not even outright hatred towards the boy: her own nephew who she had blamed for being born. "I suppose we'll just have to wait until he gets back, and then we can box his ears in."

Ned chuckled, as he closed his eyes, relishing the idea of letting Jon feel the back of his hand for some payback for the amount of grey in his hair. "I have no doubt his wife will do it for us." Ned said.

"Or fuck his brains out." Jory muttered under his breath, wincing slightly as he met the furious gaze of Lady Stark.

"That may be so," Ned said, "but today I learned that my nephew killed Gregor Clegane in single combat. That calls for a celebration I think." And with that, the word went out and Winterfell prepared for yet another large feast…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and to the guy just decided to bash/flame me just before I posted this update actually. Fuck you! I'll accept constructive criticism from anyone, but as far as I am concerned, if you haven't written so much as a word of your own and posted it you can keep your yap fucking shut. Wanna bash me? fine! but at least try to grow the balls to produce something better then if you think what I write is so fucking terrible.
> 
> I like writing 'happy' or 'funny'. Never had it in me to write overly complex masterpieces like JRR or GRRM. I certainly find myself incapable of writing descriptive slash or angst.
> 
> Humour, often cracky, or the good guys being badass and/or over the top is my style of writing. I'm sorry if that offends someone, but it is and always have been my opinion that if you don't like someone's work then you should just keep silent, it's called respect, try to discover what it means. Of course it may just be me being old fashioned, who knows? Chivalry is dead and all that shit, and being a 'gentleman' is apparently the same as being a misogynist sexist bastard, so what do I know?
> 
> So, rant over, sorry about that. Flamers who doesn't even have anything posted themselves pisses me off even more than others who give generally unkind reviews that can often be construed as direct bashing.


	6. Reactions in the realm

** Disclaimer: Insert the usual. **

**Warning: There's a small lemon in the end of this chapter, clearly marked for those who are squeamish.**

** Kings Landing: **

Petyr Baelish was angry, no scratch that, he was apoplectic. He had spent over a week trying to get to grips with the devastation done to his fortune after that Bloody. Wild. Fucking. Wolf! That was the result of Brandon fucking Stark's spawn coming to King's Landing.

Never had he thought he would hate a man more than Brandon Stark, who had not only humiliated him beyond belief in front of his beloved Cat, but had maimed him to the point that even today, almost two decades later, he could still feel remnants of the agonizing pain that coursed through him from when the savage scarred him for life from navel to collarbone.

That is, until he met the bastard spawn of Brandon of course. Jon Stark and his companions little romp to King's Landing had left him with only one remaining brothel (whose whores had up and left with whatever gold he had stashed in it). His numerous holdings (mostly stationed in Flea Bottom and jealously guarded by the Gold Cloaks) had been reduced to matchwood, and the gold, gems, and secret notes with delicious blackmail material were conspicuously missing from them. Seven and ten years he had worked for that wealth, first as harbor master in Gulltown, and then as Master of Coin, skimming as much as he dared from the treasury, which was made all the easier due to Robert's lavish lifestyle.

And all of it was gone in a single night. If he ever got his hands on that northern savage, he would tear his head off… that is, he would stand by the side mocking the boy while he got some big brute do the dirty work for him. And to think, he had been so close to his goal too.

Jon Arryn had been sniffing around alongside Stannis Baratheon, suspecting (and rightly so) that the King's children were not his. As such, it was too late to back out now, so he had convinced Lysa to poison her husband, only for the daft bitch to somehow mangle it, leaving the old man alive and delirious. Had Lysa just told him sooner, he could have tried to arrange something, but such as it was, by the time he found out, Jon Arryn's Maester had discovered that he had been poisoned and tried to treat him.

The only thing that seemed to be going Petyr's way was that it had apparently been too late for Arryn as the poison (and weren't those Tears of Lys worth every dragon) had seeped into his body far too effectively. Unfortunately, as King Robert had sat by his old foster father to say goodbye, Jon Arryn, who had been informed by his squire just minutes before that a certain vial had been brought to Lysa at her express command, had, in a moment of surprising fury, told Robert that Lysa had been the one to poison him.

Whatever else the old Lord tried to say was left unfinished, as Jon Arryn's last words to a furious King Robert had been 'The seed is strong.' When he died, the King was left in mourning, and was as furious as he had been when he fought Rhaegar Targaryen, a fury that had thoroughly ravaged Petyr's plans to rise in power by slowly gaining the Lordship of the Vale through Lysa and her son.

Ser Barristan and Jon's squire Hugh had tried to make the King exercise restraint, but apparently it had been too long since he last killed something that wasn't walking on four legs: he had grabbed the first weapon he saw (an axe almost as tall as Petyr) and barged into the Tower of the Hand. Whatever doubt there had been to Lysa's complicity in her husband's death had been blown right out the window as the King found her packing furiously while screaming at her servants to pack faster as they needed to flee the city.

Petyr had let out a slightly relieved sigh when he heard that instead of doing something sensible, like surrendering (and then revealing himself to be the mastermind behind the poisoning), Lysa had taken one look at the furious King before babbling in high pitch about how the King wouldn't get her son before promptly grabbing young Robert Arryn and throwing both of them out from the topmost window of the tower. Petyr's only regret, beside the fact they he couldn't use them for his plans any longer, was that he hadn't been present to hear the bitch and her little 'falcon' scream, nor hear the satisfying thump they must have made as the splattered all over the cobblestones below.

And now, Harrold Hardyng, Lady Wainwood's ward, was the new Lord of the Vale, and was no doubt already strutting about with his new name Harrold Arryn, probably just as arrogant as Jon Stark must have been. Petyr felt a stab of pain at the thought, as if something gave way in his stomach, and made a mental note to make sure that Jon Stark and Harrold Arryn never met one another, for that would surely be the end of him (if not the entire Realm). The only wise decision the King had made in the whole mess had been to decree that Yohn Royce would act as Harrold's regent until the boy turned twenty, and Petyr found himself cursing Varys for informing the King about Harrold's vices, knowing that having Yohn Royce teach him how to rule for a few years was surely better than to throwing a young man from a knightly house straight into the position of Lord Paramount. It was a wise decision on the King's part, and a VERY bad one for Petyr.

Less than a week after the raven flew to Runestone to inform Lord Royce, a letter had been sent to Petyr informing him that just because he was a friend to Lysa did not mean that he was exempt from paying taxes, and that men (with a nose for sniffing out hidden valuables) had been sent to his small keep in The Fingers to collect the back taxes Petyr owed. Apparently, after seven and ten years one could accrue a lot of interest, and Petyr was almost sure that if it hadn't been more trouble than it was worth, Lord Royce's men would probably have torn his keep apart stone by stone, and taken the stones themselves just to inconvenience him. There was no wealth waiting for him back in The Fingers; that was certain.

Seven and ten years, all down the drain, and all because Brandon Stark couldn't manage to restrain himself from putting his cock into any willing female, eventually siring a brat that was apparently Brandon Stark reborn: just as much of an arrogant, lustful, imbecilic dunderhead as his father, only somehow even worse, as not even Brandon Stark had seemed to possess a talent for fucking up a man's life's work on accident.

"You'll pay Jon Stark. Trust me, you'll pay." Petyr muttered angrily as he went back to counting what little of his coin remained.

* * *

 

Unlike a certain Master of Coin, Varys the Spider was amused. Watching Littlefinger tear his hair out in frustration day after day had been his favorite pass time for quite a while now, and if doing this to Littlefinger had been Jon Stark's only actions in the south, Varys would still have sent him a large shipment of food and wine (anonymously of course), but naturally the boy hadn't stopped there.

He had crippled Baelish to the point that he had been too busy (and angry) to salvage the situation with Jon and Lysa Arryn. Varys didn't fully know what Littlefinger's plans were, but he had a few guesses, and seeing that brief flash of apoplectic fury on Baelish's face when he learned that Lysa and Robert Arryn had died had told Varys all he needed to know.

Not that Petyr Baelish was the only one angry at Jon Stark. The Queen was beside herself at how angry she was, cursing Jon Stark in every other sentence for not only speaking out against at House Lannister in public, but also for humiliating her house by killing Gregor Clegane in single combat, thus proving that the Gods had ruled House Stark as the more righteous one (at least in the eyes of the smallfolk and the devout). She was also angry because her father had sent a letter to her, denigrating her quite horridly. Truly, it was a shame that one of Varys little birds had gotten their hands on the letter first, and had subsequently spread the word that Tywin Lannister was displeased with his only daughter for losing him his favorite monster.

She also had to spend time spoiling her little golden shit of a firstborn, who was inconsolable. Not only had Jon Stark made a mockery of their house by besting their greatest fighter/monster, but when Joffrey had ordered The Hound to bring him Jon Stark's head, Sandor Clegane had taken one long look at the Prince and then spat at his feet before telling him 'Fuck the Lannisters, and fuck you,' before leaving and heading North, apparently to swear his sword to Jon Stark in thanks for killing his brother.

War was brewing, he could almost smell it. Tensions between House Stark and Lannister were so strong now one could almost touch them, and it would take very little before Tywin Lannister forgot himself and marched off to war, for he was a man who could not let the slightest insult go unpunished, and from what Varys knew, and had seen during the duel, Jon Stark was not a man who would let himself be intimidated or threatened. Varys would keep his eye on them both and observe for now… That and he would speak with Illyrio to have him send a ship or two laden with produce, and perhaps a little gold, to the young Stark. Gods knew the boy had more than earned it for not only killing Clegane, but also for providing him with such great entertainment.

* * *

 

** Dorne: **

Prince Doran smiled slightly as Areo threw a bucket of cold water over his insensate younger brother.

"Seven hells, why did you do that?" Oberyn asked as he wiped the water out of his eyes.

"You have been switching between sulking, raging, and celebrating for a week now Oberyn. It's time you return to the rest of the world." Doran said.

Oberyn snorted. "Clegane should have been mine. Elia was my sister, Rhaenys and Aegon were mine to avenge, but instead of taking vengeance ourselves, we had to rely on a Stark of all things to do it for us: some northern bastard who doesn't share a lick of blood with my niece and nephew did away with The Mountain on nothing more than a whim… what does that say, brother?" Oberyn asked in a voice filled with anger, pain, and amusement all at once.

"You forget," Doran said, "that the young man was born here in Dorne. Rhoynish blood runs through him, and for all that he was raised in the North, he reminds me strongly of you at his age."

Oberyn grumbled rebelliously. It was true after all, seeing as the former Snow had a reputation, not only for his skill at arms, but also his promiscuity and his carefree attitude, all of which certainly struck close to home. After killing that monster Clegane, his reputation would certainly be cemented as one of the deadliest men in Westeros. "Must be the Dayne side in him, though his father had a temper too I suppose."

"Yes." Doran nodded. "He may have been raised in the North, but we will remember that he came from the sands of Dorne."

"By the gods." Oberyn laughed suddenly. "He'll never sleep in an empty bed for the rest of his life if he comes to Dorne."

Doran gave a rare smile. "Ever since the news reached us there has been celebrating in the streets. Wine flows, whores let men and women alike rut for free, and apparently near three thousand men and women laden down with gifts have gathered here in Sunspear to travel North together to see Clegane's head."

Oberyn's eyes widened. "I must go. I… I have to see it with my own eyes."

Doran nodded, "Then go, my brother."

Oberyn shook his head again to try and clear out the wine. "I have to find Ellaria, the girls too now that I think of it. This will be glorious." Oberyn mumbled as he started to pace back and forth, digging out clothes and sniffing them to see if they were suitable, "What?" he asked as he spotted the amused glint in his brother's eye.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you this pleased." Doran said calmly. "You will take Arianne with you, yes? She's expressed a desire to go."

"Of course." Oberyn said. Arianne could still vaguely remember Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon, so it was only fair that she got to see the head of the man who had caused their family so much pain.

"You will also be bringing a gift as a token of our appreciation." Doran said. "A full chest of gold, along with food, spices, wine, cloth, and steel. I will not have it said that House Martell does not give out princely gifts for such services."

"Of course brother." Oberyn said as he readied himself to find Ellaria, and knowing his lover well, he would no doubt find her in one of the whorehouses celebrating. "I only wish I could see the look on Tywin's face."

* * *

 

**Casterly Rock:**

"Would you care to say that again?" the cold voice of his father rung out from behind the door to his solar and Tyrion winced with sympathy at the poor bugger who had no doubt told his father the news that had made Tyrion leave the whorehouse in Lannisport in all haste.

Entering the solar, Tyrion saw his father seated behind his desk, his hands twitching with rage, while his uncle Kevan stood beside him with a look of shock on his face, while Maester Volun shook with fear, not an altogether unusual sight as the spineless old man could be frightened by someone slamming a door too hard. Facing Tywin Lannister in a rage would be infinitely worse.

"J-Jon Stark was accused of murder b-by the Queen and Ser G-Gregor My Lord. He demanded a T-trial by Combat and won, viciously k-killing Ser Gregor so b-brutally that several m-men and women f-fainted My L-Lord."

His father was still for a moment before ruining any hope Tyrion had of sneaking some wine for himself by grabbing the pitcher and hurling it straight at the wall. "What else?" he hissed.

Maester Volun shook slightly before turning his eyes down to the small scroll in his hands. "P-Prince Joffrey commanded S-Sandor Clegane to bring him the h-head of Lord S-Stark, w-which caused Clegane to speak r-rude words to the P-Prince about House Lannister and th-the Prince himself before leaving. R-rumor has it that C-Clegane is h-heading north to swear his s-sword to Lord Stark."

Now THAT was interesting. Tyrion didn't know much about the Prince's now former sworn sword, other than that he had a reputation of total obedience, and quite some skill with a sword. That Sandor Clegane was willing to turn his back on House Lannister was grave indeed, for his father would take that as a direct challenge, as it implied that House Lannister was becoming weak. With two of their most brutal and infamous warriors now lost, one of them butchered far worse than the infant Prince he was famed for murdering, and with their popularity in the realm at an all-time low due to Cersei's behavior, and his father's before that, Tyrion was genuinely worried for the future. You didn't just yank the lion's tail and expect to come out of it unharmed, and since everything could be laid at the feet of Jon Stark in some way or another, Tyrion knew the young Lord's days were numbered, unless he had the men and skill to defeat his father on the field.

"I. Want. That. Bastard's. Head. On. A. Damn. PLATE!" His father roared, and Tyrion refrained from rolling his eyes. That response was true to form, if nothing else.

"Kevan, you'll write to the King to press our demand, threaten him with calling in the debt he owes us if needed." Turning his eyes back on Maester Volun, he snarled at the aging Maester. "Leave me. Not you." he said as Tyrion turned to leave as well. Tyrion felt his shoulders sag before wandering over to his father's desk and taking a seat.

"Yes father?" Tyrion said.

"Madness." Tywin muttered. "Madness and utter stupidity. I thought Cersei would have learned by now that Robert loves the Starks."

"Yes well, my dear sister has always been a bit unstable." Tyrion said with a shrug.

"That boy should have been drowned at birth." Tywin snarled. "No doubt the King will do nothing, regardless what I threaten him with."

"In his defense father, the gods proclaimed Jon Stark as innocent, and righteous in his vengeance, to try and have him killed would not be good for us, not to mention that the smallfolk loves him. Even in the south people speak of him with awe, and that was before he killed Clegane."

"So I should do nothing?" Tywin asked sharply. "I sat by for years as my father did nothing and turned our house and name into a laughing stock. House Lannister cannot let this insult stand, lest our bannermen think us weak".

Never in his entire life had Tyrion seen his father this furious. It seemed he was willing to ignore common sense, meaning that Tyrion was actually in the right during one of their discussions, which was a bloody miracle. "If you try and have him killed, he and the entire North will rise up against us, and with the North comes the Tully's… and let's not forget that the boy has Dornish blood, and is probably the most loved man in all of Dorne now. Do you truly think we can hold off three of the Kingdoms at the same time father?"

"Cersei is married to the King, and he owes us three million dragons." Tywin snarled.

"And that won't mean shit, father, and you know it. The King bloody well rewarded the boy for god's sake; do you honestly think that any of the Baratheons will rise up for us if we start a war? Thanks to your actions during the Sack, seven and ten years of Cersei as Queen, and our ever-increasing grip and influence in King's Landing, we are despised by every single one of the Kingdoms. Father… if you do this, you are dooming our house."

FUCK it was pleasing to see the absolute fury in his father's eyes when he saw that Tyrion was right, and the sheer pain of that realization sinking in would fuel Tyrion's happiness far better than a thousand pretty whores. "Be gone from my sight Imp, I do not care to look at you."

Well that was nothing more than expected from his father, so Tyrion bowed mockingly before leaving his father in a rage, mentally scoring a victory for himself. Perhaps he should travel to the North: he had always intended to visit the Wall sooner or later, and if his road took him by Moat Cailin, well, no one could blame Tyrion for that, could they? His father would obviously deny him if he asked, so taking a rather broad interpretation of the words 'leave my sight,' Tyrion decided that his father's words had not meant 'you are barred from leaving the Westerlands,'. Knowing that his father would no doubt be far too angry to even ask where Tyrion was for perhaps a week or three, he decided that now was the best time to finally indulge his desire to travel the Kingdoms. Decision made, Tyrion informed a maid that he was returning to Lannisport, where he gleefully had the few servants he had that were loyal to him gather the majority of the coin he had saved over the years from his weekly stipend. Finding a few sell-swords willing to escort him was hardly difficult, as he was well liked after all amongst the 'lower' classes of people, and the two guardsmen in full Lannister armor no doubt helped as well. Then, with everything ready, he and his companions took the first ship available, which meant that they would be disembarking at Seagard, the home of House Mallister, and they would continue by horse from there.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Jon and the others were all blissfully unaware of how various powerful Lords in the Realm were reacting to his slaying of Gregor Clegane, though it seemed that word of what had happened preceded them, as Lord Wyman Manderly threw them a feast that lasted for a whole three days, and which left Jon and his friends groaning at the mere mention of food. While Jon was certainly quite pleased and smug (and rightfully so) at how he had cut down Gregor Clegane, he found that the novelty of having to explain every minute detail of the incident became a bit stale after the fiftieth or so time. Besides, he was more interested in learning what had happened on the home front during the time he had been away.

The most exciting piece of news was actually brought by Domeric Bolton, who was doing his best to charm Lord Manderly (and Lord Manderly's granddaughters) in the hope of being allowed to wed Lady Wylla Manderly.

"Can you say that again Lord Bolton?" Jon asked Domeric as soon as he told them the shocking news.

"My father and bastard brother are dead." Domeric helpfully replied.

"Your father was a cunt." the newly named Smalljon 'Stagsbane' Umber said to the approval of the crowd.

"Excuse me Lord Jon." Domeric said to the Smalljon. "My father was brutally cut down by his own son, who attacked the both of us right as we were dining."

"Your father was a cunt." The Smalljon said again. "And that's why your brother killed your father. Your brother was a cunt too, which is why you swapped drinking goblets with him when he wasn't looking."

Jon almost hadn't believed it when he heard the tale the first time. Domeric had decided to visit his bastard brother Ramsey, despite the warnings he had received from his father, from Jon, and several others. But had kept a wary eye on his brother, who had quite deliberately placed a goblet of wine in front of him as he personally served him food in the small cabin he lived in. Suspicious of the eager and slightly unhinged look in his bastard brother's eyes and face, he had swapped both their plates of food and goblets of wine when Ramsay's back was turned as he went to pick up eating utensils.

It was a bit of a shame according to Domeric, as the meal was quite excellent. Apparently, Ramsey had a flair for cooking, though Domeric didn't much care for the extremely aggressive attitude Ramsay had when cooking. The next day, Domeric heard that Ramsay was swearing up a storm and apparently shitting his guts out, which he had thought that to be the end of it, but Ramsay had proven him wrong by apparently clamping his arse cheeks together long enough to make the short ride up to the Dreadfort under the guise of talking to their father.

He had stormed in with a wild, bloodthirsty look on him right as Domeric and their father were enjoying a meal, and had charged straight for Domeric and tried to run him through with a crude falchion. Thanks to the training he had gone through during his stay with the Redforts in the Vale, Domeric had managed to escape Ramsay's blow by throwing himself back away from the table, just in time to see Ramsay bury his falchion into the chest of their father. Roose Bolton had died with a look of sheer surprise on his face, and before Ramsay had managed to comprehend what he had done, Domeric had kicked Ramsay as hard as he could right in his stomach… to his great regret a moment later, as Ramsay had immediately unclenched and loosened his bowels. While watching his cruel bastard of a father get done in by his own sadistic bastard son, and watching said bastard shite himself to death, had been both amusing and somewhat pleasing, the sheer amount of shit had left a lingering stench in his dining hall that still hadn't dispersed during the week he spent at the Dreadfort to take up charge as the new Lord Bolton. Since it had been over a moon's turn since he left, he hoped that the smell was gone, and Maester Wolkan had certainly promised that he would see to it. Despite disliking the idea of it, threats of flaying did seem to help when giving orders… he had a family name to live up to after all.

"I suppose I have to agree with you: Ramsay was a cunt." Domeric said with a shrug.

"Hmm." the Smalljon said in a nonchalant way. "Don't think I've ever heard of someone killing their own father only to shite themselves to death after the deed… might be one for the history books." he finished with a laugh, causing most to join him, and even Domeric seemed to grin a little.

"I suppose I owe all of you some thanks. Had you not warned me, I might not have done what I did." Domeric said with a wince, no doubt imagining himself living his last days in agony as he sat on the privy shitting blood.

"Bah." Jon said. "Ramsay was a cunt, and you deserved to know. Perhaps this way House Bolton can start to work to changing their image here in the North." Jon said.

"What do you mean?" Domeric asked with narrowed eyes, causing Jon to stare right back.

"Exactly what I said." Jon said victoriously as Domeric averted his eyes. "You know all too well the reputation that your house has, Ramsay certainly didn't improve on it, and your father wasn't exactly a beloved man in the North either, but House Bolton is yours now. You can act as your ancestors did, or you turn over a new leaf for your House." Extending a hand towards Domeric, Jon said, "I am willing to extend a hand in friendship to you, and to try and bridge the gap that has existed between our houses for thousands of years."

Domeric grasped Jon's hand in a firm shake. "And I am pleased to accept it." he replied.

"Good." Jon said as he tightened his grip a little, "But a word of warning, if you play me false, I'll make what I did to Gregor Clegane look like a sparring session."

Domeric gulped as he swiftly tried to offer his denials while the rest of the table held their breath, causing Jon to laugh uproariously. "Relax Lord Bolton, 'twas a tasteless jape at your expense." Jon said, causing the rest to laugh again, "I am sorry if I frightened you."

"You're sorry?" Domeric wheezed. "You should check my smallclothes for fucks sake." this caused even more sniggering, even Domeric joining in swiftly enough as the shock disappeared and he saw the humor in it.

"Alright: that enough Stark." Lord Wyman said as he raised a hand to try and regain some measure of control before turning to Domeric. "Having gotten to know you somewhat over the last moon, I am prepared to agree to a betrothal between you and my granddaughter Wylla… Now there are some conditions to this." Lord Wyman said quickly, interrupting Domeric who seemed to be well on his way to thanking Lord Wyman profusely. "She will be bringing with her some of her own companions, as well as a good contingent of my personal guards to act as her chaperones. If I hear that the two of you have snuck off without a chaperone, the betrothal is off. However, if, after a year, she will have you, you have my permission and blessing to take her as your wife."

"Th-thank you, Lord Manderly. Naturally, I will accept these terms." Domeric said as he stood and bowed low to the Lord of White Harbor.

Jon looked at the Smalljon and they shared a grin. While young, Lady Wylla would certainly prove to be a challenge. She was as free spoken as his cousin Arya, and was apparently not too concerned about scandals either, as she had colored her hair a rather eye watering shade of green. Not to mention, her dress certainly served to flatter her figure: the fact that she had huge… tracts of land… which were displayed rather nicely due to her dress was certainly a point in her favor. "So, who will be wearing the armor and the gown in that marriage you think?" Jon whispered in the Smalljon's ear, causing the larger man to spray Jon's goodbrothers Harrion and Torrhen with a mouthful of mead as he tried in vain to hold in his peals of laughter.

"Fuck you Jon, do you always have to run your mouth when I'm eating or drinking?" he asked as he kept the two furious (and drenched) Karstark men at bay with his large hand (holding a rather hefty mug).

"Of course I don't." Jon said. "I just enjoy seeing you make a fool of yourself." he finished, causing the Smalljon to grumble angrily.

"That's right lad, better laugh while ye can." Lord Wyman chortled.

"Pardon?" Jon said.

"I don't imagine your wife will be too pleased with you when you return home. Word has it that it took her brother and three others to stop her riding after you to beat you bloody. I ever heard that she grabbed a hammer out of your poor smith's confused hands to do it, which certainly lends credence to that statement."

Jon felt a chill run down his back. An angry Alys was a dangerous Alys, and even worse she was fully capable of barring Jon from their marriage bed. After all, he certainly didn't think he had a 'right' to take her just because they were wed: fucking a woman who didn't want to be fucked was rape in his mind, married or no.

"Fuck me." Jon said despondently as he spotted smug grins on the faces of his friends.

"I think that's the last thing she'll do to ya Jon." the Smalljon sniggered.

"We'll just have to see I suppose." Jon said resignedly.

"Aye that's true." Torrhen chimed in.

"So, we leave tomorrow." Jon said. "Who will go where?"

"Me and Torrhen will be going back home." Harrion said. "So we'll accompany you for some part of the way at least."

"Same for us." Robett Glover said. "Though it is a long distance back to Deepwood Motte, and I would not be averse to guesting under your roof, if only to lay my eyes on that direwolf of yours again." From the eager look in his son Gawen's eyes, Jon surmised the young lad was even more eager than his father.

"You'll always be welcome in my home Lord Glover." Jon said to the older man, who despite being as old as his real father would be, got on very well with the younger Stark. Their mutual respect and similar interests (like killing Ironborn raiders) probably had a lot to do with it.

"While not the Lord of Deepwood, I believe I can speak for my brother when I offer the same courtesy to you Jon: you'll always find hearth and home in Deepwood Motte."

Lord Halys and his son Daryn would be staying in White Harbor for a few more days, most likely due to the shared kinship they had through Lady Hornwood, who was Lord Wyman's cousin.

"I'll be coming south with you Stark." the Smalljon said swiftly, causing Jon and the others to raise questioning eyebrows at him.

"My father usually selects this time of year to parade women in front of me to try and entice me into taking one to wife." he said, causing Jon and the others to snigger.

"Poor little 'Stagsbane' is afraid of a wee woman, eh?" Robar Royce said.

"Shut yer trap little Runestoneling." the Smalljon snarled. "There's nothing that's 'wee' about the women me father usually picks out, and I think he's getting impatient as well."

"Picky are we?" Harrion sniped.

The Smalljon scoffed. "Picky? Not as such, though I do tend to put me foot down when the smallest woman me father picks out looks like a slightly slimmer, female Robert Baratheon." he said, causing the others around the table to go slightly green at the thought: King Robert was anything but a slim man.

"Well, I suppose I can protect your virtue a little longer." Jon said, "Though I fear that if this continues, tales will be spread about Jon Stark's giant damsel from Last Hearth. I suppose I could just tell the tale to Sansa, that way the rest of the North will know your plight soon enouAAARGH!" Jon was cut off as the Smalljon locked his head in his left arm and used his right fist to give Jon the worst noogie in Northern history.

"Yer good Jon, but I can still make you shut yer trap." the Smalljon said as he finally let Jon go.

"I suppose I deserved that one." Jon grumbled as he tried to glare the others into submission, and failed spectacularly in doing so. "That reminds me… Domeric," Jon said suddenly, "I am in need of your family trade."

Silence stretched over the hall as everyone stared at Jon in shock.

"Flaying is forbidden in the North, Jon." Domeric said slowly.

"Flaying living men is forbidden, Domeric." Jon said. "The law states nothing about dead men."

"I don't follow.,." Domeric said, still confused as to what Jon was getting at.

Jon shrugged slightly. "I've figured out a much better use for Clegane's head than just being mounting on a spike, though I suppose I will have to speak to Gendry about it as well…" Jon trailed off. "Anyway, I figure that having Clegane's face hanging on my wall should do nicely, in case any southerners come to my home with an attitude. It should make a…Stark reminder, if you will." Jon said, grinning at the multiple groans his bad pun produced.

"That… HAH, don't let anyone tell you that you don't have balls Jon." Lord Wyman said with a laugh.

"I suppose I could do this for you." Domeric said. "It would be interesting, if nothing else."

* * *

 

Leaving early next morning (with a new 'blanket' amongst his possessions), Jon and his friends shared a number of good tales along their way, and even managed to fell a magnificent stag with an impressive four and ten points in a small forest along the White Knife due to the rather impressive bow skills of Hugo Norrey. As the Norrey was the one to land the killing blow, he got the choice cuts, and lion's share of the stag, which would indubitably net him far more praise and welcome in his home among the Mountain Clans than if he had returned with a hefty tourney purse, seeing as the Mountain Clans valued food far more than gold. The rest of the stag was shared equally among the rest of them, with some going to the Karhold, some to Last Heart, some to Deepwood Motte, and some to Moat Cailin.

Harrion and Torrhen parted with them on the third day, heading north toward Karhold, while the Norreys headed north when they came to the Kingsroad, and the rest of them turned south towards Moat Cailin. Finally, after another two days on horseback, the Moat came into vision, with Stark banners waving in the wind.

"MAKE WAY!" A voice yelled from the top of the gatehouse. "MAKE WAY FOR LORD STARK!"

Men and women drew to the side as Jon and his party rode down the causeway towards the central keep, many cheering as they passed, and Jon heard more than one person whisper 'Mountain's Bane' as he rode past. Finally, they reached the courtyard where the majority of the household had turned up to greet them.

Dismounting, Jon was shocked to see Winter sit proudly beside Alys, with six small pups yipping and yelping as they swarmed around their mother.

"Well met husband." Alys said as Jon stepped up.

"I've missed you My Lady." Jon whispered as he took her hand to lay a kiss on it, before lifting up first his son to toss him in the air slightly (to the young lad's great enjoyment), before repeating the process with his daughter.

"Clearly." Alys said drily, "Otherwise you would never had done something as foolish as provoking The Mountain into a fight." Jon gulped slightly at the decidedly frosty tone in his wife's voice.

"That's it lads," The Smalljon said suddenly, "I'm getting out of here." he yelled to great cheer, and Jon was somewhat awestruck at how quickly the courtyard could empty itself. Torhen and Lyarra, his last line of defense, were also removed by the wet nurse, who quickly scarpered into the keep to find somewhere else to be.

"Traitors." Jon grumbled at their retreating backs.

"Come." Alys said sharply as she led Jon to the godswood. He followed until they stood underneath the Weirwood before she wheeled on him.

'SMACK!'

"THAT was for the worry and aggravation you caused me." Alys snarled as she drove her fist as hard as she could into Jon's chin. "And this is for making every girl in the realm jealous of me." she said softly before grabbing his head into a voracious kiss, causing both of them to moan as they wrestled with each other's tongue.

"Let's go back, the food should be ready soon enough." Alys said as she started to walk away, only for Jon to grab her by the wrist and pull her back until she had her back to the heart tree.

* * *

 

** LEMON WARNING! LEMON WARNING! LEMON WARNING! **

"Surely you didn't think we'd be done so soon?" Jon growled as he tried his best to remove her undergarments from beneath her skirts.

"Jon, someone might see." Alys moaned as she tried her best to not let her arousal take over, failing spectacularly since she had already freed his cock from his breeches, and as he desperately stroked her nether lips, he discovered that she was as wet as a bitch in heat.

"Let them fucking watch, you are mine and they can do nothing more than look on with envy and longing."

"Hngh, FUCK!" She swore as Jon finally sheathed his cock inter her, sinking all into her all the way to the hilt with one hard thrust.

"FUCK, I've missed this." Jon grunted as he started to pound in and out as hard and quick as he dared. It became clear that both of them had wanted this for some time as they attacked each other like a pair of rutting wolves, biting and scratching at each other's faces and necks. The sound of their rutting could probably be heard from far away as a distinct 'slap-slap' sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"Harder, my love. Harder." Alys moaned as he continued to drive his cock into her, gasping slightly as he finally freed her teats from her dress, causing him to immediately latch onto a tempting nipple with his mouth, biting down ever so slightly. "FUCK!" she screamed as he combined the slight bite with a sudden pinch at the small hood at the top of her cunt. Jon felt his legs almost give out as her cunt suddenly gripped his cock like a vice as she thrashed against him. Her back arched away as she rode out her peak, and Jon barely remained standing as he felt his cock fill her with jet after jet of his seed.

"Fuck me, that felt good." Jon panted as he leaned an arm against the tree they had rutted against.

"Definitely." Alys said weakly as she rearranged her dress, committing a crime by covering her teats once more.

"Hnng." Jon grunted as he withdrew his cock from her, sending a jolt of intense pleasure through him as the sensitive member glided out of her so that he could tuck it back into his breeches. Looking over his wife Jon felt a smirk steal across his face. "We should probably take a bath and get on some new clothes before we enter the hall, I think."

Her hair was all mussed up, and teeth marks and hickeys decorated her neck and the tops of her shoulders where Jon had marked her as his. From the stinging sensation he felt on his face and neck, he knew that she had marked him just as much with her nails and lips and teeth.

She giggled slightly as she saw how he was wearing a 'freshly fucked' look, one that she too was sporting. "That might be for the best, husband. Perhaps as we bathe, you can tell me of your exploits in the south."

Offering his arm to her Jon bowed slightly. "Lead the way, My Lady."

** LEMON OVER! LEMON OVER! LEMON OVER! **

** AN: **

**And that's it for this chapter. I decided to split this in two as it was currently nearing 12k words and it still isn't finished (though I will endeavor to finish it within a week or so).**

**As you can see, we are heading further and further into AU as Jon's very presence seems to be the embodiment of Chaos Theory and Murphy for his enemies all in one.**

**As you no doubt noticed, I decided to lift some of Smalljon Umber's lines from the show as the guy is prob one of my favorites, both in the show and in the books, and I was fucking pissed at how they made him out in the show. Not even the death stroke of the horrendous 'Dornish Plot' triggered me as much as Smalljon Umber of all people turning into a fucking traitorous bastard who turned Rickon over to Ramsey.**

**On the note of Ramsay, I was actually sad when I killed him, as I briefly entertained the notion of having Ramsey joining Robb, Jon, and the rest down south in the war, where he would turn out to be Westeros' Gordon Ramsey, kicking ass and taking names both in the kitchens, and on the battlefield. Eventually, I decided that it should happen this way as I wanted to have Domeric live in this story, and I refuse to believe for one second that Ramsey would do nothing once he discovered that Domeric turned the tables on him. Roose already proved in the show that he could be taken off guard by Ramsey, which has something to do with the fact that he clearly believes that Ramsey would never dare go against him, I think.**

**On another note, to the few who has complained about how 'This isn't what Jon is supposed to be, not in character, blah blah blah,' this fic is AU for a reason. It explores exactly how different things could have been if Jon took after his mother and uncle instead of his father. The 'sullen, serious, brooding' way that he acts in the show/books shows that he clearly takes more after Rhaegar than Lyanna. Naturally, I am going over the top here, as I do like to write with a 'humoristic' vibe rather than dark and serious and all that. That is not to say that there won't be dark moments. This IS ASoIaF after all, and people will die, many of them in horrible way, and as they say war brings out the best AND the worst in people.**

 

  
  



	7. A Long Expected Party

** Disclaimer: Cowers in fear underneath my bed, I'll try to lure him out for next chapter. **

** This chapter is NOT for those who are easily offended. So, if you feel as if you've been told to fuck yourself and your whole family if someone mentions the word titties or 'little-willy,' then this chapter will probably be like wiping your arse with sandpaper. Therefore, any lemons will be marked at the beginning and end, so as to spare your dainty constitution, so skip them if necessary. An extra word of warning: the lemon will include incest by most modern standards, though I will remark that cousins having sex amongst the nobility was quite common in the time period that the fic is set in (many royal families still do this to a degree). **

** Also, there's a mention of a spanking which some soft hearted people or SJW's can construe as child abuse. **

**Now, on with the fic** .

** Winterfell: **

Ned had just taken the first bite out of his breakfast when his day took a turn for the worse as a horrified screech from his wife reached his ears. Willing to bet a fortune that this had something to do with Jon, Ned considered finishing his meal first for a brief moment, but, knowing that postponing the matter would not make things better in any way, he sighed and shoved the plate away before walking in the direction of the sewing chambers where his wife's distraught sobs (and curiously Sansa's as well) sounded from.

Steeling himself for a moment, he opened the door. Cat was holding a letter in a shaking hand, trying her best to keep her sobs quiet while doing her best to comfort Sansa, who was sobbing unashamedly, and even Arya was suspiciously misty eyed and sniffling heavily. Maester Luwin was standing respectfully to the side with a grave expression on his face, while Septa Mordane looked scandalized and was doing her best to shove the rest of the sewing group out of the room.

"What's wrong Cat?" Ned found himself asking as he was almost tackled by Sansa, who threw her arms around his waist.

"A letter from King's Landing." those words caused a chill to go down Ned's back. Surely this couldn't be about Jon could it? Such as it was, it was about Jon, just not the Jon he had in mind.

"Jon Arryn is dead… I know he was like a father to you." Cat said with a tremble in her voice, and only years of experience of receiving bad news, the deaths if his father brother and sister chiefly amongst them, and enough incidents about Jon to fill a book, kept Ned on his feet, though he felt a stab of pain through his chest. 'Yet more of my family dead.'

"Your sister? And her boy?" Ned asked. A heaving sob from Cat stopped Ned cold. 'Gods be good, don't say that they are dead as well.' he thought.

"Ned… Lysa, Lysa was the one who killed Jon Arryn, she poisoned him… my own sister." she said, aghast and broken at the same time. "When Robert went to confront her, she behaved like a madwoman and threw herself and her boy out through the window at the top of the Tower of the Hand."

Ned vaguely noticed that his feet buckled and sat down heavily, Sansa still clinging to him. "What?" he wheezed.

"I know." Cat said. "I cannot fathom why she would do it. She seemed so happy after young Robert was finally born, and just, to throw it all away…" she trailed off.

"We will mourn them at dinner tonight." Ned said comfortingly. While he would like to spit on Lysa's remains for what she had done, he also knew that regardless of everything, Cat did love her, and young Robert had not deserved his cruel fate. His children had exchanged several letter with Lysa and young Robert over the years, and had been told several tales about them, so for Cat's sake, and, theirs, he would hold his opinions to himself and mourn his goodsister.

"My Lord." the voice of Ser Rodrik broke through their moment of grief as he knocked softly on the door.

"Come in." Ned said as he stood up, carefully extricating Sansa from around his waist.

"A message My Lord." Ser Rodrik said as he held out a small note. "They've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch."

Ned sighed. That was all he needed now, something to make his day even worse, and he briefly spared a longing thought to the plate of fried eggs and sausages he had abandoned. 'I should have finished eating first.' he thought sadly. "Tell the lads to saddle their horses."

"Ned, do you have to?" Cat asked sadly.

Ned turned to his wife with a sad look, gods knew he loved her, but she had never understood the North. Even he, admittedly, didn't know as much as he would like, due to his long years spent in the Eyrie with Jon Arryn during his childhood and teens. "He swore an oath Cat." he said softly.

"Law is law, My Lady." Rodrik chimed in.

"Tell Brandon he is coming too." Ned told Rodrik who nodded as he walked off.

"Ned." Cat hissed, "Seven years is far too young to see such things." she argued.

"He won't be a boy forever." Ned growled in return, and with how his day had been so far he was pleased that he had not raised his voice. Cat would never understand, and didn't want to understand, their ways. Ned had been a mere five years old the first time he had seen his father behead a man. "And Winter is Coming." he said ominously, repeating the words that his family had lived by for the last eight thousand years.

"Can I come?" Arya asked eagerly, and Ned tiredly ran a hand over his face as the question set of his wife again. Too tired to do more than to try and be a voice of reason he was struck by painful memories at how much his youngest daughter reminded him of Jon's mother. There were so many similarities, from her looks, her cheeky  demeanour , adventurous spirit, all the way to how she stamped her foot angrily to the floor while she was angry, to how she stomped off, muttering angrily to herself as her mother played the ultimate trump card (I am your mother young Lady, and you will go to you room this instant). No matter how much Arya wanted to argue, she had nothing that could contest that particular argument.

"Sometimes I worry about her." Cat said sadly while shooing Sansa away.

"She is just like my sister." Ned said with a sad chuckle.

"Let us hope not." Cat muttered. "We all know what happened to her." Ned unconsciously winced at that unexpected comment, which reminded him not only of the painful memory of Lyanna's death, but of how he had lied to her only boy all his life.

"I will not let that happen." He said reassuringly.

Cat nodded gratefully and embraced him. "Hold me." she whispered.

* * *

** The Dog: **

Sandor Clegane felt dead on his feet as he stood in the great hall of Moat Cailin, waiting for his turn as Jon Stark held petitions for the men and women in his demesne. He had ridden hard after he told the little shit of a Prince to go fuck himself, so hard that he had nearly killed his horse, as a matter of fact.

Telling the Prince and the Lannisters to go fuck themselves had not been the wisest decision of course, and Tywin Lannister would no doubt want his head for that, but at the same time, he had had enough of Tywin fucking Lannister and his entire ill begotten family. Just the fact that Tywin had let Gregor live as long as he had, whilst deliberately overlooking Gregor's numerous crimes over the years, had more than earned  him  Sandor's ire and hatred. To tell the truth, Sandor had only stayed as long as he had since there didn't seem to be anything better out there. No one seemed to be willing to cross Gregor or Tywin, both whom would have wanted him dead if he had tried to serve someone else… that is until Jon Stark came to King's Landing.

When Sandor had first seen him when he was brought before King Robert after the 'Riot of the Wolf' as it had been known after, he had barely spared the young man any thought. When Stark had challenged Gregor to single combat, he had just remarked to himself that he would be yet another fool to end up dead… and then the duel had started.

From that day, until the day he died he would forever treasure the sight of Jon Stark slicing up his brother's back and slowly taking his time to snap each individual rib with a dull axe. The cries for mercy and howls of agony were sweeter to than any piece of music in the world. Jon Stark had earned his respect and gratitude that day: Sandor's burned face and his younger sister, murdered at Gregor's hands, had been avenged. So, when the little shit-stain of a Prince had ordered Sandor to hunt Stark down and bring back his head Sandor knew he had a choice.

Sandor was a fairly  skilled swordsman, slightly better than his brother. His and Gregor's main advantage had always been their prodigious strength, strength that had proved to count for nothing against Jon Stark, who was clearly blessed with great strength himself, but, from the way the young Lord moved, the way he fought, also had tremendous skill and instincts to back up his strength, which told Sandor all he needed to know. To best Jon Stark he'd have to take him by surprise, and finish him quickly, otherwise he'd join his brother in death far sooner than he had planned. Stark clearly hadn't given two shits about Gregor, and the actions of the Queen and her family proved to Sandor that Jon wouldn't be cowed by Tywin Lannister.

So, with those facts, Sandor chose life in the North, rather following the orders of the Prince to get himself killed… provided Stark would accept him, that is.

"Thank you m'lord." the voice of Stark's petitioner brought Sandor out of his thoughts and he stepped up towards where Jon Stark sat with his wife at his left hand, and a great beast of a wolf at his right.

"And you are?" he asked Sandor.

"Sandor Clegane, Lord Stark."

The mood in the room changed as guards tensed, hands finding the hilts of their swords, the direwolf bared her teeth at him with a low growl, while Stark's only reaction was a slight narrowing of the eyes. "The Hound, Gregor Clegane's younger brother I presume?"

Sandor nodded.

"And why have you come to my home with a sword at your side?"

Slowly Sandor drew the sword and tossed it at Jon Stark's feet. "I have come from King's Landing to swear it to you."

Snorts and gasps alike ran through the hall while Stark raised his eyebrows somewhat. "Look at me." Stark said in a low whisper that was heard by everyone. Sandor raised his eyes to meet Jon Stark's penetrating gaze and almost gulped.

Those eyes couldn't be natural. His normally dark eyes had a definite amber sheen to them, almost like the wolf at his side, and Sandor almost felt as if he could feel the wildness in them. It felt cold and wild, like the North itself, and he felt the skin of his neck prickle, as if it were being caressed by something invisible.

"Tell me exactly why you would forsake all oaths to the Lannisters to serve me. I will know if you lie." Sandor didn't doubt it for a second.

"I have hated my brother and the Lannisters for most of my life. You killed my brother, allowing my sister to finally rest in peace." Sandor paused for a moment before continuing. "After you left, the Prince ordered me to hunt you down and bring him back your head…" Sandor paused while he waited for the shouts of outrage to die down. "I've had enough of that sadistic little  cunt and his entire family. You killed my brother and you don't give a fuck about what Tywin Lannister thinks. For that you will always have my thanks and my respect."

"You cannot take him seriously My Lord." said one man, who was seated at the high table with Stark and his wife, wearing a suit of fine dark red and rune embossed armor.

Jon Stark was silent for a second as he leaned back in his chair, and Sandor noticed that his eyes seemed normal again. "He speaks the truth Robar," Stark said as he held up a hand to silence any protests, "but whether he will continue to do so remains to be seen."

Sandor let out a sigh of relief as Jon Stark stood up and walked around the table to pick up Sandor's sword. He studied the large blade for a moment before he offered it hilt first, allowing a confused Sandor to take hold of it.

"Do you, Sandor Clegane, swear in the name of the Old Gods and the New, to serve me and House Stark faithfully in all things? To follow my commands and to defend me and my family, with your life if necessary?"

Sandor nodded. "I do My Lord, I swear it on the Old Gods and the New."

"Then rise, Sandor Clegane. In recognition of your oath of fealty, I swear to you that you will always have meat and mead at my table, and that I will never knowingly give you a task that will bring you dishono u r."

"Thank you, My Lord." Sandor said as he stood up, sheathing his sword. He was somewhat surprised to notice that while he was definitely taller than his new Lord, he did not dwarf him as much as he thought he would, being only a bit more than half a head taller than him. Stark was a bigger man than most, it seemed, though it may be that his height was never particularly noted since Stark seemed to have spent a lot of time with Lord Umber's oldest son, who was of a height with Sandor, and a bit broader around the chest and shoulders besides.

As Stark walked back towards his chair to continue the petitions, Sandor felt a moment of peace for once as he easily slipped into his normal position five paces behind and half a step to the right of his new master. Say what they will about him, but Sandor was a loyal beast, and knew his place, and anyone who wanted to test Lord Stark would have to contend with his blade, along with Lord Stark's.

* * *

** Robb: **

Robb did his best to look stern and disappointed as he watched his father reprimand Arya, though he suspected that he failed to do so as Arya shot him a few impish grins while she tried her best to seem meek and apologetic in face of their father's anger. Bran at least had no such compunctions at all, and he was sniggering openly at the sight.

It had been a somewhat morose day, as Bran's archery lesson had been interrupted by Ser Rodrik who told them to saddle their horses in preparation for the execution of another deserter from the Night's Watch. The serious nature of their day was further compounded as they learned that their aunt Lysa and cousin Robert had both died, and that their uncle Jon Arryn was also dead at the hands of their aunt.

As such, the mood as they rode out of Winterfell to the executioner's hill had been quite  sombre , and even Theon had the good sense to keep silent, leaving each man to their thoughts. During the two hour long ride, Robb had felt the skin on his neck prickle several times, as if someone was following them, yet regardless of how many times he looked back, he couldn't spot anyone. Of course, it turned out that he was right, and shortly after his father beheaded the deserter, who had seemed scared out of his wits and babbled about White Walkers, a horse had leaped out from the trees nearby, most likely spooked by the sudden sound of a head getting chopped off and the shower of blood that followed. Robb had barely restrained himself from breaking out into laughter as the rider of the horse had held on for dear life for a few moments before being thrown off, revealing the now ruffled form of his youngest sister, who at least had the grace to look tremendously guilty, no doubt due to the sheer astonishment evident on their father's face.

"I don't know what you were thinking." the voice of their father said for the umpteenth time.

"I wanted to see." Arya muttered guiltily.

"Arya Underfoot strikes again." Theon muttered beside him, finally cracking Robb's façade, though he hastily schooled his expression once his father turned his eyes accusingly at Robb.

"Arya, you can be assured that this will have consequences, and you will tell your mother when we get back." father said, causing Arya, Robb and Bran to wince – Robb and Bran with sympathy, Arya with dread.

"I didn't mean to make you angry." Arya whispered despondently with the first signs of tears in her eyes.

Their father hugged her. "I know you didn't love," he said as he stroked her back, "but you are a noble Lady of a great house, it is not your place to witness executions." father said, bringing some fire back into Arya as she angrily stomped her foot.

"I'm not a Lady." she barked angrily, causing Theon to snort.

"Oh but you are," the Greyjoy mocked, "and one day you'll be married off to some Lord and will birth his babes and spend your days sewing." he crowed with a grin that was shared by Robb, they all knew that Arya despised sewing, or anything that normal girls seemed to enjoy. She was far too similar to Jon that way, and had seemed to make it her life's goal to take over Jon's position of giving mother and father Grey hairs in his absence. Not that Jon's absence still wasn't felt, Robb thought with a grin, as Jon seemed quite capable of creating mayhem out of anything he touched, regardless of where in the world he was.

"NEVER!" Arya yelled as she tried to jump Theon, her hands stretched out like claws. Only father's quick actions at holding her back saved Theon from having his eyes clawed out, or his throat torn out, from the way Arya was baring her teeth, which was more like a wolf than a young girl of nine.

"Arya." their father sighed as he held her firmly.

"Never, I'll never marry or sit around doing nothing but sewing and popping out children." Arya snarled. "I'll sooner run off to Essos or the Wall."

If Robb was shocked at the venom in her tone their father seemed downright pain as he closed his eyes in pain and his voice was trembling as he consoled her. "I promise you Arya, you won't have to worry about that."

"Really?" she asked hopefully as she gave her father a full blast of her wide doe eyes and cherubic smile, causing Robb to shudder. Arya was mostly seen with an impish grin on her face, no doubt the result of something or other that she had done, or was planning to do. But when she really wanted to, she could use her wide round eyes and angelic face to melt the heart and resistance of most people in Winterfell. Only mother, father, and, to a degree, Jon, seemed to be immune to its effect. Probably since they all knew her far too well, and because Robb suspected that Jon shared a good deal of the responsibility for teaching Arya that particular look. Jon was the one who had perfected it while Robb and Jon were still little innocent tykes… well Robb was, at the very least. He doubted that Jon had ever been truly innocent: too much of the wolf blood in him.

"We'll speak more of this later." father said, causing Arya to wipe away her no doubt fake tears and give them a beaming smile. "But don't think for one minute that this means you won't be punished for today." father added, causing Arya's smile to stiffen a bit.

"Well done, little sister." Robb whispered to Arya as he ruffled her hair, ignoring her protested 'Hey, stop that.'

"Mount up." Father said as he returned Ice to its wolf pelt sheath before mounting his horse. "Arya, you'll ride with Robb."

"Ow." Arya muttered as Robb lifted her up and placed her in front of him.

"What is it now Arya?" he asked her.

"I think I broke my bum when I fell from that horse." she said before glaring around, no doubt trying to find the horse that had wisely bolted away to who knows where.

"Serves you right." Robb said with a chuckle. "Perhaps next time you won't fall off your horse."

* * *

** Ned: **

Cat's reaction to Arya being amongst their number had first been relief at seeing her, as she had first thought that Arya had run south to find Jon, followed by fury once she heard that Arya had snuck away to witness the execution. The following hour had been headache inducing, since Ned not only had to be strict with his youngest daughter, but also try his best to keep Cat from being unnecessarily harsh with her. However, he would support Cat's final decision on Arya's punishment, as he and Cat had agreed long ago that he would take charge of disciplining the boys, while Cat would have the final say when it came to disciplining the girls. Thankfully, Sansa was at least sensible enough to not raise their ire too much, with her only infractions being badgering the kitchen staff to make her lemon cakes that she often smuggled into her room.

The punishment eventually ended up being Arya receiving ten licks of the switch to her behind, and while Ned hated to do it, he would rather give his rebellious daughter a few whacks to the rump rather than send her south to become a Septa, which had been Cat's first choice until Ned calmed her somewhat, so he counted that one as a victory. Arya had sent been sent to her rooms without supper to lick her wounds… figuratively speaking, that is.

"I've come to my wits end with that girl." Cat raged as she paced in Ned's solar. Ned followed her movements with a fond grin. "Don't smile at me like that." she snapped, causing him to chuckle. "She is completely uncivilized. Why couldn't she be more like Sansa?" Cat despaired.

"Cat." Ned said softly. "Arya is, and always will be, her own woman. There's too much of the wolf's blood in her for her to be anything else."

"I know." Cat huffed.

"Perhaps we should consider a different strategy with Arya." Ned voiced slowly.

"What do you mean?" she asked as she looked at him.

"Well…" he searched for the right words. This would require every bit of his diplomacy. "Yours and Septa Mordane's way clearly isn't working. The more you push, the more Arya digs her feet in."

"Clearly." Cat replied drily.

"She is old enough to foster," Ned continued, "and if there is anyone who can not only appeal to, but also tame her, it is Jon and Alys."

"What?" She hissed. "He would probably encourage her." she protested.

Ned shook her head. "If anything Jon has calmed down somewhat the last year or two… for the most part." he said hurriedly. "And with Alys' help, perhaps the pair of them can manage her somewhat. Besides, I do believe Arya misses Jon." He was wearing her down, he knew it. "Just imagine: we could have a few years of peace and quiet if we unleash her on Jon."

"I… I don't know Ned. She only has a few more years before she becomes a young woman, and is ready to wed." Cat said, and Ned sighed. He knew that Cat wished for glamorous southern marriages, away from the North for both of their girls. Sansa would definitely have one, he knew, but she was still adamant for Arya to have one too.

"I just don't want her to…" he trailed off, the memories of Lyanna and her fate a painful reminder, and with how Arya had acted earlier he feared the same thing happening.

"Don't want her to what... Ned?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry at his pained whisper, and Ned decided to share at least some of the truth.

"Lyanna… she wasn't kidnapped." he said, causing Cat to look at him questioningly.

"She tried for almost a year to convince father, Branden, myself, and Benjen to break the betrothal between her and Robert. As the date for her wedding drew nearer, she must have had enough, and she ran off."

"But Rhaegar-" Cat started.

"He and Lyanna got to know one another during the tourney at Harrenhal, well enough that both of them fell head over heels for one another. They forgot all sensibilities and ran off without so much as a by your leave."

Cat gasped.

"The result of their actions broke her Cat: father and Brandon died, and her great love dead at the hands of her jealous betrothed… what with the fate of Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon… she just… lost all hope, I think."

"You told me she died of a fever." Cat accused.

Ned shook his head. "When we found her, she had just given birth." he said, causing Cat to fall weakly into a chair, holding a hand to her chest.

"And… the babe?" she asked with a whisper.

"A girl… stillborn." he said in a voice as cold as the winter. "Her daughter dying before she could name her must have been the last straw, I think." he said. "She just didn't have anything left to live for." It truly hurt to add even more lies as he tried to tell Cat some of the truth, but he couldn't he just couldn't let anyone suspect that Lyanna's babe wasn't dead, and that he was actually living as a Lord in the North.

"Does Robert know?" she asked.

"No… I hadn't the heart to tell him." he said with a mournful sigh.

"You fear Arya will do something similar then?" she asked softly, taking his hand comfortingly into her own.

He nodded. "You didn't see her today Cat: Theon merely japed about her one day being wed and spending her life sewing. She almost assaulted him." Ned said with a fond chuckle. "She reminded me so much of Lyanna: she was just the same, getting ever more desperate and stubborn in her vehement denials until she ran off. Perhaps if we had listened…" he trailed off.

"Oh Ned..." Cat kissed him softly. "If… if you think it best, perhaps we can have her stay with Jon and Alys for a time and see how it goes."

Ned restrained himself from crowing in victory. 'Disaster averted.' he thought. "I'll write a letter to Jon tomorrow, though I suggest we keep Arya in the dark for now. I don't want her to think that her actions today deserve a reward." he said, causing Cat to laugh.

"Lord Stark, Lord Stark.," Luwin and Rodrik both broke into his solar in haste, worry plain on both their faces.

"What is it?" Ned asked, now alert and ready for bad news.

"A raven from Lord Frey." Luwin said as he held out the opened letter.

Many might find it insulting if a Maester read their correspondence, but Ned never found anything wrong with it. Actually, he was grateful when Luwin accepted his offer to be allowed to read any letters to him. The Maester was a wise man, and Ned valued any advice he could share. "Bad news?" he asked Luwin.

"According to Lord Frey, a Dornish host of three thousand rode by the Twins a mere two days ago."

"What?" He almost bellowed. "What on earth could…" he started before realizing what could cause a Dornish host to move North. "Jon." he growled. To tell the truth, Ned had thought the Dornish would be thankful that Jon had killed Clegane: the rest of the Realm certainly was… with the exception of the Lannisters, of course. He had never thought the Dornishmen's bloodlust would be so great that they would send a host towards the one who killed Clegane before any of them could.

"Lord Stark, a raven from Jon." Vayon Poole, their steward said as he came walking in. "It arrived shortly after Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik left."

Ned took the unopened little scroll and prepared for the worst kind of news (barring Jon's death). A moment later, he had to viciously restrain the urge to slam his head into his desk.

"Lord Stark?" Rodrik questioned.

Ned cleared his throat as he started to read aloud.

_ Dear uncle, _

_ You'll be pleased to know that I have now returned to the North after my somewhat… disastrous trip to King's Landing. If it helps, I never intended to cause trouble…  _

_ That caused unbelieving snorts from all of them.  _

… _Anyway, as I wrote, I have returned to the North, and am a fair bit richer in coin than I was. Also, Winter has whelped: we now have seven direwolves, not just one._

_ In other news, I thought I should let you know that I've accepted Sandor Clegane into my service in thanks for his information.  _

The others in the room shared looks of disbelief. 

_ Apparently, Prince Joffrey ordered him to find me and bring back my head… just my head mind you, nothing else, and before you decide to ask, I  know he wasn't lying. _

_ Lastly, and the main reason I am sending this letter, is that it seems that half of Dorne has decided to show up to thank me for my little jaunt to the capital, so if you should suddenly wonder why there are a few thousand Dornishmen at the Moat, you'll know that they are there to celebrate, and if I might say so, I've been provided with enough gifts that I could drink wine for years on end. _

_ Signed: _

_ Jon Stark _

_ Lord of Moat Cailin _

Silence reigned for the briefest moment before Ned and Cat both yelled, "JON!"

* * *

** Jon: **

Jon and Alys had just finished breaking their fast when the door to the hall burst open revealing an out of breath Edd, who was still acting as Castellan, a position he intended to hold for a few more years at least, due to a desire to see his young nephew to grow up, and also to claim the position of favorite uncle. "Jon, Alys, you'd better come." he told them, causing Jon and Alys to share a brief look of bafflement.

"What's  this about Edd?" Jon asked as he hefted Lyarra into his arms, while Alys did the same with Torrhen, Robar and Sandor followed behind at a respectable distance as they followed his goodbrother.

"I don't quite know what it is Jon." Edd said as they entered the courtyard where one wagon after another showed up, all of them filled to bursting.

"My Lord Stark." a man who was even more corpulent than King Robert and Lord Wyman bowed as much as his big belly allowed. His forked beard was stained with grease and held half a dozen gold rings in it.

Jon returned the bow with a short nod of his head. "I am he." he said. "And might I enquire as to why you are here, master…" he finished, fishing for the name of the large man.

"Illyrio Mopatis, Magister Illyrio Mopatis, of Pentos." came the reply.

Jon felt his eyebrows go up to his hairline. 'What on earth would bring a Pentoshi Magister here of all places?' Aloud, Jon responded. "You  honour me by visiting my home Magister. Food, drink, and shelter will be given, should you desire it."

"A hundred thanks Lord Stark." Illyrio said with another short bow. "Alas, I am short on time as I have a wedding to arrange, but when I heard of your heroic deed, I and a few friends, who wishes to retain their anonymity, decided to offer you a few gifts." The magister said as he waved to each of the wagons with extravagant gestures as the drivers of the carts started to uncover them one by one.

"Glass, carpets and tapestries from Myr, steel and furnishing from Qohor, wines, both white and red from Lys, fabulous fireworks from Yi-Ti, exotic fruits from all over, and a chest full of gold, all given generously from grateful men and women as thanks for ridding the world of such a monster as Gregor Clegane."

Jon felt weak in his knees. Not from receiving gifts: he had already received dozens of ravens, primarily from the Reach and the Lords of the Narrow Sea, offering gifts and thanks, such as Lord Randyll Tarly, who informed him that he was gifting him with ten wagons of grain and an offer to purchase more come winter at a reduced price. Lord Monford Velaryon had even gifted him with three galleys from his own small fleet, but this amount… the chest of gold alone was even bigger than the one he had won in King's Landing.

"You have my most heartfelt gratitude for this Magister. Should you or any acquaintance of yours need food or shelter, you need but to ask and I shall grant it."

Illyrio bowed again. "Many thanks, Lord Stark. as for the carts and the oxen pulling them, you may keep them. I should love to stay longer, but as I said, I have a wedding to arrange."

"Of course." Jon said. "Do you require horses to return? I assume you docked in White Harbor."

"Your offer of transportation is unnecessary." Illyrio said. "There is room for us in the last carriage, and we have good tents to sleep in on the road." Looking at the large man and his guards, who didn't seem small either, Jon felt a pang of sympathy for the oxen pulling the last wagon.

"Then I wish you good fortune on the road."

Illyrio and his servants disappeared soon enough, leaving Jon and the rest to inspect the various inventory in the carts while servants started to carry it all off to be stored properly. He suspected that Alys would start in with the furniture first: it was exceptionally carved and had elegantly stitched upholstery in the finest fabrics, and, if he went by the look of glee in his wife's eyes, there was more than enough here, and of a much finer quality than they already had. At the very least, they wouldn't have to use any of the gold Jon had won in King's Landing for decorations to the Moat.

"GET DOWN!" Gendry yelled all of a sudden, and Jon ducked just in time for a howling, burning stick to fly over his head, veering slightly upwards before it detonated with a tremendous bang in a kaleidoscope of  coloured sparks, sending several horses and the oxen into a frenzied panic. Jon counted himself lucky that the beasts in question had already been locked up, so they calmed quickly enough.

After calming his panicked daughter with soft words, he turned towards Gendry with a look of absolute fury on his face, only to see Gendry was far ahead of him. The smith was already boxing in the ears of his younger brother, who had arrived with a pair of Stormlanders the day before. Edric was wearing a look of abject shock on his soot stained face, and the torch he had used to ignite the firework laid forgotten on the ground beside him.

"No need to worry Jon." Gendry said as he seized his little brother by the ear. "I'll set him straight." he finished as he started to walk away with Edric, with the younger boy offering a continuous stream of apologies, interspersed with scattered yelps and pleas for mercy for the sake of his ear, which was trapped in his older brother's iron grip.

"I know that look." Smalljon 'Stagsbane' Umber said as he glanced at Jon, who was grinning widely. "Means you have an idea, and that someone else will want to murder that lad if they ever find out that he is the reason for it." he said with a laugh, bringing forth accompanying snickers from their closest friends.

"Hmm." Jon hummed thoughtfully. "I'll have to speak with Gendry first… but yes; I think this will become very handy."

"My Lord?" Rolland asked curiously. The young Maester reminded Jon a bit about his younger sister… cousin… whatever, Arya, what with his curiosity and appreciation for bad jokes.

"I want you to try and get more of this stuff Rolland." Jon said, waving towards the fireworks. "We know it comes from Yi-Ti, so start with that, and while we wait for a proper reply, I'll permit you to take half of it."

A look of glee came across Rolland's face as he rubbed his hands, while his mind probably conjured up one idea after the other for fun things he could do with them. "To do what with, My Lord?" he asked.

Jon shrugged slightly. "I noticed that they tend to have a mind of their own as they fly. See if you can't come up with a way to make them fly relatively straight."

Rolland's eyes shimmered, as if Jon had offered him a thousand dragons. "I will gladly start to work on this at once My Lord, as soon as I've drafted a letter and sent it on its way."

"Good." Jon said with a smile before remembering. "One thing Rolland." he said as he held up a warning finger. "If you wake me or my children up with these contraptions during the night or the morning, I'll be very displeased."

"Of course, My Lord, of course." Rolland yelled as he hurried away from them. "No setting them off during the night or early morning."

Amused, Jon saw the door to the keep slam shut as Rolland hurried up to his library, no doubt to draft the letter at once. "Somehow I feel as I've brought on a sudden and terrible change upon the world." Jon said with a slight hint of worry in his voice.

Looking at Alys, who had merely raised one of her elegant eyebrows in question, Jon shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind."

* * *

It had taken Rolland, Gendry, and Edric, who was Gendry's apprentice, no less than six days, three ruined sets of clothes, forty nine different noise complaints, eleven threats of murder, five incidents of burn treatment, and one burned down house, but they had managed it.

"See out there Lord Stark?" Rolland questioned as he pointed out to a spot in the swamp where three floating platforms held a practice target each that was normally used for arrow practice. They were about a hundred yards away, were and spaced thirty feet apart.

"I see it." Jon said angrily. He, Edd, Sandor, Stagsbane (who was still hiding away in the hope of avoiding marriage proposals), Robar, and Halys his guard captain had all been dragged out of their sleep and out to the lower battlements – far too early in his opinion, and he already longed back to the bed where Alys slept. Her sole response to Jon asking her to come to had been a curt 'fuck off, I'm sleeping.'

"Well, it took some time and a few accidents," Rolland said, ignoring the snorts of contempt or disbelief with  practised ease, "but we've worked out the kinks… I think/" he finished with a grin, gingerly holding up one of the fireworks with a heavily bandaged hand that concealed the numerous burns he had acquired during his experimentation.

The firework looked much like it had done when they received it: a round conical shape with a pointed tip, a bit thinner than Jon's closed fist, attached to a yard long stick the thickness of an arrow. The only modification that Jon could see was a slightly longer fuse and two pairs of four triangular 'wings', one on the firework itself and one at the end of the stick.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense." Stagsbane snarked, he looked to be just as tired as the rest of them were.

Gendry, who was the strongest of the three, hefted a steel pipe with a curiously attached small circle on the side, as well as a handle to hold it over his shoulder. Edric took one of the fireworks and placed it into the pipe from the back and ignited the fuse before pushing it all the way in. With a tap to his elder brother's shoulder he stepped away, and Gendry shifted the pipe towards the three targets and waited until, with a sudden squeal, the firework flew off in a mostly straight line with a tail of smoke and sparks behind it. It was clear that they had done this a few times, as the firework detonated less than five yards from the  centre target in a conflagration of red sparks and flames.

"Slap me thrice and hand me to me mumma." said Stagsbane, uttering his  favourite phrase. Meanwhile, Jon felt a grin steal across his face.

"We've experimented a bit, but found that one hundred to a hundred and twenty yards worked best with the fuse and was accurate enough to be useful. Just use the small iron reticule on the side here, and you'll most likely hit as close to, if not directly on, what you aim at inside of that range." Rolland said before he started cackling. He was joined quickly by Jon.

"Ye two scare me sometimes, ye know that?" the Umber heir said in a deadpan voice.

"This is excellent. Gendry, I want more of these, and Rolland, get me more fireworks, we certainly have the coin."

* * *

** Later that day: **

Jon got a dangerous tick in his eye as Edd stormed in, again, while Jon and Alys were eating, and he prayed to the Old Gods that Edd would not make a habit out of this. "What is it this time?" Jon asked in a flat voice.

"Thousands… of people… are coming… from the south." Edd wheezed. "And dozens of carts with them."

"For fucks sake." Jon grumbled. While all the gifts and praise he got after killing Clegane were appreciated, this was getting ridiculous. And that was without mentioning that everyone seemed to agree that arriving together in a bloody horde was the best way… which it certainly was, if they wanted to get on Jon's rapidly fraying nerves. Jon had started to feel a small amount of kinship with his uncle for all the grief he must have caused him over the years.

"Better get on with it." Alys sighed as she stood.

Jon nodded and the pair swiftly climbed the stairs until they got to the top of the keep, where Jon trained his new Myrish spyglass that he had received from Magister Illyrio towards the south. "Fuck me." he whispered as he spotted one banner after another. The men and women beneath the banners were dressed in rich, brightly  coloured clothing, and all of them wore thick, heavy furs while shivering slightly. The majority of the people were on foot, and most of them gazed with wide eyes at the ancient stronghold that was creeping ever nearer to being completely rebuilt.

"What is it?" Edd asked as he tried in vain to nab Alys' own glass from her to take a look.

"I spot no less than fifteen different Dornish Houses, including the Martell sun and spear." Jon said, causing Edd to swear loudly.

"I'll get right on it." he muttered as he almost flew back into the keep. Jon and Alys shared a chuckle when they heard him yell loudly for the cooks.

Taking their time, Jon and Alys both changed their clothes into some of their finer sets… though Jon still wore his knee length brigandine, as one never knew when having some armor on could come in handy. With a last look around their solar ,they headed down, pausing only for a brief moment to pick collect Jon's newest piece of utility/ornamentation.

They arrived just in time to take their seats when the doors opened, and a stream of salty Dornishmen and women marched in, all of them looking around curiously. One by one, they came before Jon and Alys and thanked them for killing Clegane, with most of them leaving a gift of one kind or the other before stepping back to let the next one come forth.

This continued for hours: hours which made Jon more and more uncomfortable, and worried for his health, while Alys grew ever more aggravated. He had been outright propositioned by no less than  twenty two men and sixty three women, many of whom had who stated right out that they wanted his children. Most of them also offered to have Alys join them, causing both Alys and Jon to grow increasingly redder in the face as time passed. It seemed that the women had also unanimously agreed to shed their furs in the entrance hall and wear their most revealing outfits that they had in their wardrobes. Some of the silk outfits were so thin that they didn't actually hide anything, to the point that due to the cold (or arousal), Jon could count the individual bumps on their nipples. He also made the fascinating discovery that most Dornish women liked to have as little hair as possible 'down there,' and made a mental note to carefully broach the subject with Alys.

When the vast majority, who were apparently smallfolk, were done both giving their offerings and cheering loudly when shown what Jon had done with Clegane's skull, the nobles started to arrive. Jon later learned that the nobles had decided to let the smallfolk have their fun first, and taken the opportunity to explore the fortress and small city around it.

Representatives from House Uller, Yronwood, Dayne, Lemonwood, Blackmount, Dryland, Drinkwater, Gargalen, Holt, Lake, Qorgyle, Vaith, Wyl and Santagar all bore gifts: various Donrish outfits in bright  colours , though made from cotton or wool rather than silk, gold, wines of all different sort, even grain and potatoes (the last two showed that Dornish apparently understood what northerners appreciated best), until only House Nymeros Martell was left.

At the head of the Martells stood a man that could only be the Red Viper of Dorne himself. Accompanying Prince Oberyn was four young girls of varying ages, and six older ones, ranging from young woman to women grown. Five of the six were devastatingly beautiful, while a last woman, who was clearly Prince Oberyn's lover, was just as pleasing to the eye as the others. Jon gulped as four pair of eyes looked at him with undisguised lust, including – to his  discomfort – Prince Oberyn. Jon suddenly felt hot beneath his collar as he tried to avoid showing how unnerved he was by the glances. The women in particular seemed to have fine-tuned their hungry gazes into a tool of devastating efficiency, and Jon felt his cock ache harder than it had done all day as he took in their attractive forms. All of them had smooth, delicious skin of varying  colours , and lustrous hair, ranging from platinum blonde to coal black. The only thing they all seemed to have in common, with the exception of Oberyn's lover, was their dark blue eyes.

"Prince Oberyn." Jon started. "I welcome you to my home and offer you my bread and salt." With that one of the kitchen hands stepped up with a plate of bread and salt. 'Gods know how many plates it has been today.' Jon thought.

After taking a portion each, Oberyn spoke. "I have come in person to thank you on behalf of my family for avenging my sister Elia, and her children Aegon and Rhaenys, by killing Tywin's mad dog Clegane. Naturally, I bring with me gifts." Oberyn spoke with the curious drawl typical of the Dornish.

"As I have said more times than I can count today," Jon said with a grin, "killing Clegane was my pleasure, and can only offer my sympathies for your loss so long ago; no woman or child deserves such a fate."

Oberyn nodded sadly. "Let me introduce everyone: First, my niece, Princess Arianne Martell."

Arianne Martell was as dangerously beautiful as the others, and had long, flowing, raven locks, mouth-watering legs and hips, and a large bosom that made Jon's hands itch to grab them. "It's a true pleasure to meet you, My Lord." Arianne spoke with a sultry whisper, which caused Alys to growl possessively. Poor Jon obediently had to press a kiss to the back of the Princess' hand, and he barely kept his face cool as he felt Alys hand grip his thigh in warning.

"My eldest daughters: Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, and Sarella." Oberyn continued. Obara, the eldest, was the least attractive one of the lot,  though hardly unpleasant , with  mousy brown hair, and a relatively plain face that seemed to be unused to smiling, tho ugh she was at the moment, and it seemed that she was at least somewhat appreciative of his looks. Nymeria was without question the most beautiful of the lot, surpassing everyone else, including her cousin, the princess. She had light olive skin, long raven hair in a single intricate braid, an ample chest, a perfect figure, and strong facial features that screamed nobility despite her bastard status.

Tyene shared a lot of Nymeria's look, though her teats were a fair bit smaller. However, her loose silken hair, almost the same color as the Targaryen silvery white, more than made up for it. Lastly, Sarella, the shortest of the lot, had the darkest skin of them all, more resembling a summer islander than a Dornishwoman. Just like their seductress of a cousin, she seemed to have no shame whatsoever, proven when she bent slightly to give Jon and Alys an eyeful down her loose robes while offering their thanks with that same sultry tone as the others that made Jon want to rip of their clothes and take them right there in the hall. By the time Sarella had finished, Alys' grip on his thigh was actually becoming painful.

"My younger daughters." Oberyn continued, barely keeping himself from laughing at Jon's obvious discomfort. "Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza." Oberyn's last four daughters were all were similar to each other, and the fact that they shared parents was evident in their looks. Elia was the eldest at about ten years or so, while Loreza was the youngest, looking to be about five, or perhaps six from Jon's guess.

"And lastly, this is my Paramour Ellaria." Oberyn said as his lover stepped forward and kissed both his cheeks. The same lust and arousal he had seen in her step-daughters and niece was just as present in her.

"Thank you brother." she said, causing Jon to raise a questioning eyebrow at her.

"You were born a bastard  in Dorne , like me." she said. "As such, you and I have a thousand brothers and sisters in Dorne."

"I, ah, thank you." Jon stuttered, trying his best to ignore the sniggers around him. "My wife Alys, my son Torrhen, and my daughter Lyarra," he said as he introduced them in turn.

"Lyarra Snow, was it not?" Obara asked curiously. With his rapidly growing fame there was little everyone knew of Jon Stark's bastard daughter.

"She is my daughter." he said sharply. "Her name is of no consequence."

The Dornish shared approving smiles amongst each other. "I… apologize if I offended." Obara said haltingly, no doubt she was not used to apologizing.

"There is one other thing, now that introductions are finished." Oberyn interrupted, "I have heard tell from all the smallfolk that they have laid eyes on the skull of Gregor Clegane, but all of them refused to answer anything specific. They just smirked at me and said they didn't want to ruin the surprise."

Jon grinned at the Dornish Prince. "You'll see, but first you must want to use the privy."

"No… I don't." Prince Oberyn interjected, somewhat confused.

Jon stood up and laid an arm across Oberyn's shoulder, "No, no, I insist." he said as he coaxed Oberyn through the door behind the great hall. He led the Dornish prince down a corridor until they came to a trio of doors that each led into a small room where a wooden privy stood and Jon felt Oberyn stop suddenly.

There, nailed to the planks over the hole in the privy, was the skin and face of Gregor Clegane. "Is…is that…?" Oberyn stammered.

"I find it very relaxing to piss on Clegane's face whenever I need to go. It keeps reminding me that I killed the fucker as brutally as could be done and got away with it with nothing but praise."

Oberyn laughed as if he had been told the greatest joke in the world, and to Jon's shock (and mild panic) he grabbed Jon and kissed him straight on the mouth. Thankfully, it was over before Jon do anything, shocked as he was, and a sniggering Alys gently coaxed him back to reality with a far steamier kiss of her own, which Jon did his best to enjoy while doing his best to also block out the memory of Oberyn's tongue inside his mouth. Glaring at the back of the Dornishman, Jon did his best to try and seem disapproving, a difficult feat considering how Oberyn was laughing and hollering as he pissed on Clegane's face. When his business was done, Oberyn turned back to Jon and the others with a grin.

"That was one of the best experiences of my life." He said with a smile so wide it almost threatened to split his face in half.

"Then let me make it better." Jon said before placing a warning hand on the hilt of his axe. "But if you try and kiss me again, I swear by the Old Gods and the New that prince or no, I'll split your head in two."

"I do so love it when people talk dirty." Oberyn japed to Ellaria who 'hmm'd' in obvious agreement, once again causing Jon to curse the fact that his cock didn't seem to understand that there was only one woman Jon could fuck silly now.

Jon led Oberyn back into the hall where the majority of the Dornish nobles still waited (a few had gone to follow Oberyn's example and have a piss on Clegane's face). Motioning for Oberyn and his family to seat themselves on the other side of the high table, Jon waited until they were all settled before he took his own seat across from Oberyn. Opening a bottle of the finest Dornish red, Jon bent down and poured a generous helping for himself in his personal goblet before placing the goblet in front of Oberyn, who blinked in surprise when he saw it.

With Gendry's help, he had managed to shear off the top of Clegane's skull and give it a thin coating of gold all along the inside (after a thorough cleaning, of course) so that no liquid would leak out. The base of the skull was fastened to a stem of black steel, and the jaw itself had been wired shut to keep it in place. Taking a long, deliberate sip from what he himself considered to be the most impressive drinking goblet in the world (there was none other like it, after all), he offered it to Oberyn with the skeletal face staring at the Dornish prince with its empty golden eyes. "Would you like to drink the finest wine from the skull of your most hated enemy?" Jon asked smugly.

"This… I think I might be in love." Oberyn japed breathlessly before he eagerly accepted the goblet and drank deep to the sound of victorious shouts from his fellow Dornishmen.

"While I will keep my goblet, I do still have the top of Clegane's skull. It could work as an acceptable plate or soup bowl I suppose, if it would be to your liking Prince Oberyn." Jon said suddenly, just barely ducking in time to avoid the spray of wine as Oberyn broke out in hysterics.

"Let no one tell you that you don't have style Jon Stark." Oberyn said when he calmed down somewhat. "And I would love to take you up on your offer."

Jon smirked, "I do try." he commented to Oberyn's first statement. "I'll have it ready for you by the time you leave."

Oberyn smiled.

"Now!" Jon said suddenly as he stood up. "To celebrate this occasion, I welcome you all to eat and drink your fill. The kitchens have been working hard for hours."

"HEAR, HEAR!" people yelled, while others chimed in with shouts of "TO LORD STARK!" or "THE BLOODY WOLF!" There were even a few 'Mountain's Bane' and 'Fuck the Lannisters,' though Jon could have gone without the shout of 'I want to have your children,' though after recognizing the voice of the last one to shout that statement, Jon made a note to try and have Sansa spread the tale of 'The Stagsbane Damsel,' as well as tales remarking on Smalljon Stagsbane's preferences for men and wishing he was a woman so he could have children.

The great hall was filled close to bursting with men, women, and musicians; the tables were groaning under the weight of food of all different kinds, and though he got increasingly drunk, Jon did note that the Dornish seemed to take a particular delight in cooked rice with a spicy sauce after the first few braved a taste of the small white grains.

Judging from the cacophony outside, Jon surmised that the Dornish smallfolk and his own Northerners alike were having just as great a time as they were having in the castle. He already had word sent to everyone who ran an inn or similar that food and drink were to be offered for free, and Jon himself would compensate them for the costs later. After several hours, there was no question that Jon was drunk, or that his guests were just as drunk as he, and as the night wore on, several strange agreements were struck. Jon unexpectedly found himself with a second squire in the form of one Trystane Martell (pending Prince Doran's approval), and was also richer one small and fully furnished manse in Sunspear at the price of four thousand dragons. Lord Anders Yronwood, who had developed an unusual liking to the honeyed mead they served in the North, had arranged for twenty full casks in return for half a dozen sand steeds from his personal stables.

Various groups of Northerners, Valemen, and Dornishmen formed all over the hall and dedicated themselves to gods only knew how many card  or dice games, where even the most outrageous bets were allowed, and even encouraged. The games became a wellspring of japes, insults, bloodied lips, and even crying in one instance when Stagsbane let out an emotional sniffle when he lost his  favourite axe to Obara Sand, something that would stay with Jon for ages.

Eventually, though his memory of when or why exactly it had happened was lost, both Jon and Alys found it imperative to take both Princess Arianne and her cousin Nymeria on a guided trip around the castle, from the way down to the lower gates to the very top of the fortress. They didn't have to worry about alcohol during the tour, seeing as the smallfolk, who all cheered whenever they came across them, helpfully plied them with wine, ale, and mead.

"And this is our bedroom." Alys supplied helpfully as Jon made a grand sweeping gesture with his arms, causing three sets of hysterical cackles to spring forth as he tripped over his own feet and landed face first on the large bed.

"That's a large bed." Arianne whispered sultrily into Alys' ear. A moment later, Jon's eyes widened and his cock stood to immediate attention in his breeches when Arianne snuck her hand up Alys' back to her neck and brought their mouths together in the most arousing kiss Jon had ever seen.

* * *

** LEMON WARNING! LEMON WARNING! LEMON WARNING! **

Instead of pushing the Dornish Princess away, or even slapping her, Jon's wife surprised him by moaning and grabbing ahold of the Princess, quite eagerly kissing her back with their tongues lapping at each other. As if driven into a frenzy, Alys hurriedly started pawing and tearing at Arianne's clothes, trying to rip them off. Airanne only giggled slightly as she slapped away Alys' grasping hands, preferring to tease both Alys and Jon by slowly removing her garments. Jon was shocked out of his daze as Nymeria seemed to come from out of thin air to latch onto his mouth with her own lips. Her greedy tongue swiftly wrestled his own into compliance, and Jon grunted in protest as she suddenly leaned back, with only a thin strand of saliva connecting the two of them.

"Fuck, that was hot." Alys whispered, and Jon was forced to swallow loudly as he spotted the two Dornish ladies, who it seemed were suddenly clad only in their name day suits. It was obvious that Arianne was a woman fully grown, both from her defined curves and her full teats, which were doing a delightful little jiggle in tandem with her heaving breaths. Sweeping has gaze lower, Jon was instantly mesmerized by the thin, fine strip of black hair that led to her lower lips. Turning his gaze back to his wife, he was delighted to spot the  smouldering look in her eyes and the visible red flush of arousal on her cheeks and heaving chest. As he had with Arianne, his eyes slowly moved down her form, and he was impressed, as he often was, at how quickly she had rid herself of any sign of her earlier pregnancy. The sole remaining sign was a few thin stretch marks on her sides that more than anything added to her appeal. 'You earned those stripes my love.' he thought just before Nymeria latched onto him again.

This time Jon was prepared, and was to one to break off the kiss, grinning in victory as Nymeria let out a protested moan while his lips went in search of the sweet spot on her neck that usually drove any woman wild. 'Found it.' he thought smugly a moment later as he sucked slightly and felt Nymeria shiver while producing a whimper that went straight to his cock.

"FUCK!" he gasped as Nymeria turned the tables on him by forcing her hand into his breeches to grasp his cock in a firm grip, massaging it ever so slowly as she moved her hand up and down the shaft at a  torturously slow pace.

He shuddered at the sudden sensation of a pair of lips attaching to both sides of his neck simultaneously. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw that his wife and the princess had apparently decided to join the party. He almost lost his balance as Nymeria suddenly detached her mouth from his and knelt, swiftly pulling his breeches and smallclothes down his legs while Alys and Arianne shared an impish smile that sent a spike of hot lust through him as they grabbed his shirt from each side and tore it off him, ripping it in two.

He never had the chance to protest as Arianne suddenly pushed him, sending him flat onto his back atop the bed, where all three of the girls swiftly joined him. 'This can't be happening.' Jon thought as Arianne and Nymeria kissed and nibbled all over his chest while Alys was nibbling on Nymeria's neck. Staring straight into Arianne's dark eyes Jon's heart skipped a beat as Arianne's mouth engulfed his cock.

"Fuuuuuuck." he said with a drawn-out groan of pleasure. Her mouth felt like fire against his sensitive cock, and Jon barely managed to keep his eyes open at the arousing sight. It was obvious that Arianne had sucked a cock before, and it wasn't long before Jon let out a scream of pleasure as she suddenly drew in a large breath through her nose and took him all the way to the hilt, burrowing her nose into the fine hair above his cock.

Turning his head to the side a moment became his undoing. Lying flat on her back was his wife, and she was lapping her tongue through the lips of Nymeria's flower while Nymeria herself was bent over, reciprocating Alys' actions. The moans and lapping sounds made Jon's body tense up almost instantly, and he soon shot his seed down Arianne's throat. Far from unprepared, the Dornish seductress raised her head to the point where only the head of his cock remained in her mouth, and she started to suck hard, causing him to let out an animalistic scream as his entire body seized up. His fists clutched the furs on the bed as his cock pulsed with one shot after another, until it was finally over, and he could relax… that is, until he saw Nymeria, who had ceased her ministrations after having taught Alys the basics. The Dornish bastard sat with her legs spread across Alys' face, and her eyes were closed and her back arched to the point that it looked painful. Her hands pinched and rubbed her nipples until she opened her eyes in an expression of ecstasy, and an unrestrained squeal of pleasure signified her release as her entire body shook and twitched, until a few moments later when she breathlessly fell onto her side.

Jon could already feel his cock returning to its erect state, but his wife had yet to reach her peak, and he had wanted to taste her for hours now, thus he wasted no time in drawing Alys on top of him so that she mirrored the position she'd had Nymeria in just mere moments before. Like a man dying from thirst Jon dove in, his tongue targeting her inviting flower, the pink lips of which were glistening with a combination of her own juices and Nymeria's saliva.

"FUCK!" she screamed suddenly as Jon bit lightly at the small hood on top of her cunt, a spot he knew from lots of experience drove women mad. A few more licks and Jon started to get  light-headed as Alys clamped her thighs together around his head while she stiffened up and finally got that release she had been denied by Nymeria. Gently laying her down beside him, Jon's cock finally returned to full mast at the sight of Aryanne and Nymeria kissing each other as if it was going out of style. The sight of the pair of them swapping the remnants of his seed along with Alys' juices and their own saliva was far more arousing than it should have been, and Nymeria expertly stroking along her cousin's lips certainly didn't help to cool Jon down. The two Dornish ladies barely had time to register his sudden recovery before he pounced.

He gave Arianne just the briefest moment to stop him, but her eager nod encouraged him onward before he sheathed his cock into her hot channel as deep as it could go. Having peaked once already, while Arianne had yet to reach her own, Jon was at a distinct advantage, and utilized every bit of his skill by setting a pace that shook the bed slightly as every hard thrust drove her into the furs beneath her. Arianne didn't last long at the pace he set, and her moans were quickly replaced by inane babble, while at the same time, her nails had decided to use Jon's back as a canvas. She desperately clawed at his back, and the slight pain of her nails drawing blood just spiked Jon's lust rather than diminished it. Like her cousin, she seemed to lose all control of her bodily functions when she came as her form switched between seizing up painfully tight to loose and trembling. Rather than stopping, Jon increased the pace of his thrusting, prolonging her peak to the point that she almost begged him to stop. Feeling himself getting closer to the edge, he tried to extract himself, only for the Dornish princess to clamp her legs around his lower back, demanding that he finish the job. Lost in pleasure, Jon simply continued fucking her with hard, fast thrusts, until he threw his head back and howled as he emptied himself inside her cunt, painting her insides white.

While the temptation to just collapse on top of the princess was great, he stayed in the position he had held when he fucked her. His outstretched, trembling arms were on either side of her heaving chest. and he was doing his best to keep his cock from softening by making slow, shallow thrusts in and out, and each movement caused him to shudder.

Beside them it seemed that Alys had discovered a new side to herself, as she was quite literally holding Nymeria trapped. Her hands were fisted painfully tight in Nymeria's raven locks, and she moaned breathlessly as the Dornish woman lapped at her cunt with a passion, drinking in her lovely juices while playing her like a master musician would play his harp. For the second time that night, Jon got to see his wife come undone, and the ecstasy that ravaged through Alys was so great that when it was done, Alys shakily drew herself back ever so slightly to try and recover.

"It is my turn now?" Nymeria asked as she stared at him hungrily, slowly teasing him as her tongue ran across her lips to lap up the remains of Alys' juices. Pushing Arianne away so that she lay beside Aly,s Jon trapped Nymeria by holding her arms to her sides. "Jon, please." she begged as she tried in vain to struggle.

"You've been a bad girl." Jon mock scolded as he bit slowly at her earlobe, enjoying the power he held over her as she shuddered with want.

"No I haven't." she whispered in reply as she tried yet again to escape.

"Oh but you have my sweet." he said as he sucked at a point right beside her jugular, producing a keening moan. "You started a job but left it for me to finish." he continued as he pointed at Alys, who was still breathing heavily, though from the  smouldering look in her eyes she seemed to find it as exciting as Jon did. "I think I need to teach you to not leave a task halfway done." Nymeria let out a surprised squawk as Jon spun her around and forced her to her knees, pushing her face in between Arianne's legs. "Be a good girl and finish her up." he said before spreading her knees wider so that she was at the perfect height for him to slip his cock into her.

Despite having finished twice already, Jon had been in a state of near constant arousal all day, and had more than enough stamina to keep going, but the tightness of Nymeria's channel, and how she expertly used her muscles to clamp down on him at every thrust, as well as the sight of Arianne with her head thrown back and calling Nymeria one dirty word after another, meant that Jon was totally unprepared for the sudden clenching in his balls as his pace became totally erratic. He pumped one shot of his seed after another into her, and ironically the motion of withdrawing his cock from her after he was done was what sent Nymeria over the edge.

Falling sideways and then onto his back Jon almost wept when both Nymeria and Alys crawled over on either side of him and started to kiss and lick all over his sensitive cock, cooing encouragingly as it slowly but surely rose to the occasion yet again. As it was, he had not yet fucked Alys, so he turned his gaze onto her, only to be somewhat surprised when she declined. "Arianne has been an even worse girl than Nymeria." she said, causing Arianne to widen her eyes.

"No I haven't." Arianne denied, only to gasp in shock as Alys' hand smacked her left cheek. Spluttering in protest, the Dornish princess was completely  defenceless as her cousin joined in on punishing her by grabbing a sensitive nipple and pinching. "PLEASE!" Arianne shouted.

"You called a woman a bitch in my bed." Alys snarled as she smacked Arianne's other cheek, while Jon could only watch in awe at how the two women turned the Dornish princess into a shuddering, pleading wreck.

"Please, no more, mercy, MERCY!" Arianne shouted.

As soon as Alys and Nymeria ceased their punishment, the Dornish princess surged forward to embrace Jon tightly. "Poor little princess." Jon cooed at her. "Are the other two being mean to you?" he asked, receiving a vigorous nod from her. Giving her a comforting smile he turned his gaze to Nymeria, who was watching with interest. "So what do you have planned?" he asked her.

Nymeria turned thoughtful for a moment before she gave a grin that was far more shark-like than comforting. After briefly searching through the pile of garments on the floor, she held up a small vial triumphantly and quickly returned to the bed where she blew a small kiss to her cousin, whose confused look turned to horrified realization just a moment too late. Nymeria had already pushed her face in between Alys' thighs so that she mirrored the position Jon had had Nymeria in moments prior. Taking her time, Nymeria gently opened the vial and massaged the oil within on to Jon's cock, before applying a far more generous helping all over Arianne's rosebud. She worked first one, then two fingers into her rear while licking and biting her cousin's arse cheeks. Satisfied that her cousin was ready, she grasped Jon by the base of his cock and aimed it slowly towards her cousin's rear. The small opening was softly expanding and then contracting every second or so, and while Arianne was certainly busy with her tongue, her body was more than ready for what was about to come as she trembled in anticipation.

"Fuuuuuck." Jon groaned as he slowly sank his cock into Arianne's arse. "Never… thought… I'd… bugger… a… Princess." he hitched out, each word spoken slowly as he softly moved his cock in and out. Every stroke felt like he was all but forcing himself forward, and her guts certainly did their best to aid him when he withdrew.

He had never felt anything that hot or tight before. It was as if his cock was caught in a sheath so tight that it felt like he was wearing a second skin; a second skin that pulsed and massaged him like no other. Every small contour of her arse felt as it had clamped down on his cock like nothing else, and the ring of her rosebud stretched tightly around his cock was one of the most arousing things he had ever seen in his life. As her rear passage became accustomed to his size, it slowly loosed the grip it had on him just enough for him to increase his slow but steady pace.

Despite his numerous sexual encounters over the years, he had never buggered someone before, and he prayed to all the fucking gods there were that Alys would be willing to try it out, as he had never felt anything as good as what he was doing to Arianne right then. Speaking of Arianne, she had now surrendered completely. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was opening and closing in a perfect 'O' shape every time Jon thrust his cock into her guts until she shuddered and screamed, finally reaching her second peak that night. The sudden sensation of her arse clamping down on Jon to the point that it was even tighter than when he started buggering her caused him to lose control, and he rallied as best he could for three hard strokes into her arse before his entire body twitched and shuddered, sending five blasts of white cum into her rear as he experienced the strongest orgasm he had ever felt. Both Alys and Nymeria cooed at him as they stroked his back, and Nymeria was also softly massaging his balls as they twitched, trying to send more of his seed into Arianne. Collapsing on top of Arianne, he just managed to avoid squashing her underneath him by turning onto his side, and he closed his eyes, falling asleep immediately. Arianne joined him with his slightly softening cock still trapped inside her, and Jon never even noticed Alys cuddling into his back with Nymeria cuddling Alys' in return.

** LEMON OVER! LEMON OVER! LEMON OVER **

** Aight, chapter 7 was updated...finally. I’m still editing chapters 8 and 9 as well as 2 through 6. 8 will be posted in a few days and 9 after that. 2-6 will be uploaded swiftly. In other news thanks to my good friend Avery_Fontaine who has written a pretty sweet cold open for chapter 10, as well as KadeIV for his help with editing and ScholarofhteArchive for their hints/tips during our discussions it is my hope to get chapter ten written and edited within the next 7 days. Keep your fingers crossed ladies and gents. **

  


**I’ve also started up a patreon account of my own. Don’t worry, all my works will still be uploaded on both FFN and AO3 for free perusal. But if anyone wants to support me feel free. I will also take commissions.**

  


**Patreon link; https://www.patreon.com/Daemon_Belaerys**

  


**In addition I have started my own Discord server where anyone and everyone are welcome to join and discuss my works or just chat. Only rule for my discord is to keep politics out of discussions.**

  


** Discord link; https://discord.gg/u87TVbk **

** Cheers **

** Daemon Belaerys **


	8. More Guest? And Oh Dear!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This edited chapter is dedicated to KadenIV who won't get off my back until I make some progress with this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To KadenIV who has badgered me for fookin days to finish editing mah stuff.
> 
> You happy now ya fookin kneeler?

**BREAKING NEWS!!! A young Disclaimer was found dead outside of its home today. Prevailing theory from forensics is that was either torn apart by a** **polar bear** **or a mutated** **land crawling** **sea-bass.** **Snowy the Snowbear** **vehemently** **proclaimed his innocence while he was brought into custody by a crack team of penguin special forces. More news to follow as we at the Westerosi Herald will do our best to keep our readers updated.**

  


**Warning: some relatively nondescriptive sex in the first part of this chapter.**

* * *

 

  


**Moat Cailin:**

When Jon woke it was with a throbbing headache after the vast amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before and it took him a good minute or two to regain his bearings, and as he did so he panicked ever so slightly as the memories of the most… erotic night he had ever experienced, returned to him.

“You might as well open your eyes husband, I know you are awake,” came the dry voice of his wife.

Jon sighed, ‘ _might as well get it over with,’_ he thought as he opened his eyes, only to groan in pain- Alys the sadistic with of a wife of his had opened the drapes just enough to make sure that Jon got a full blast of gleaming sunlight straight into is poor eyes. “For the love of the Gods Alys please, shut those drapes,” he moaned.

Even the amused chuckles from his wife was pure torture, though she did take pity on him as she closed the drapes again and Jon could finally see properly. Truth be told she didn’t look much better than he did. Her hair was wild and tangled, numerous hickeys dotted her neck and her make-up was well and truly smudged, she looked well and truly fucked.

“Alys,” Jon said hesitantly as he looked about the room, “Last night..”

“Yes,” Alys replied with a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I wasn’t dreaming was I?” he asked, hoping that mayhap it was a dream, while also fervently begging the Gods that it wasn’t just his imagination at work.

“That depends husband,” Alys said as she seated herself beside him so that she could teasingly run her hand over his chest and stomach. “If you talk about the fact that you fucked two of our guests in our own bed, then no, it wasn’t a dream.”

Jon swore. . . _loudly_ , “You’re gonna smack the shit out of me now aren’t you,” he asked as he tried in vain to get out of the tangled sheets before his wife could use her long nails, or even worse, the knife on the night stand to deadly effect.

“That. . . would be a bit premature,” Alys said with a blush. “I was. . . a more than eager participant last night after all.”

Jon’s eyes lit up as he grinned. “Did my _dear_ wife enjoy herself last night?” Jon asked as he finally untangled himself enough that he could lean close and whisper into her ear, enjoying how she shuddered at his suggestive tone. “You liked having another woman’s tongue between your legs didn’t you?” he continued, “such a bad girl you are my love.”

Sadly it seemed that Alys had more control than Jon hoped as she rejected his advances and playfully pushed him back down on the bed. “Gods be damned Jon,” Alys bemoaned. “I was a respectable young Lady of noble birth before I met you, stop grinning DAMN YOU,” she shouted the last two words while trying desperately to keep her serious mien, though from how her lips were twitching, eager to turn upwards Jon knew that she wasn’t angry.

“Aye you were,” he admitted. “But do you really believe you would have even half as much fun as Daryn Hornwoods wife, as you’ve had with me?”

Alys finally cracked up. “You have a strange way of defining fun husband,” she admitted. “What you consider fun, is enough to make your Lord uncle go grey before his time, not to mention that you make me worried or angry as well.”

Jon shrugged. “Uncle needs me to bring a bit of chaos into his life,” he said, skilfully ignoring Alys’ look of disbelief. “He far too serious all the time, and as for you,” Jon continued, slowly encircling her in his arms. “I like it when you get angry.”

“ _Really,”_ Alys asked sceptically.

“Oh aye,” Jon agreed. “Makes the fucking all that much sweeter when I grovel for your forgiveness.”

“Pig,” Alys snorted as she slapped his arm lightly, but still let herself be lowered to the bed, and she did nothing to refuse Jon’s kisses or try to stop his hands as he slowly pushed her skirts up towards her waist.

“Still true,” Jon replied as he nibbled on her earlobe, his left hand already inside Alys’ smallclothes to stroke her lower lips, and from how wet she was he knew that he had succeeded.

Alys bit her lip to try and keep quiet, only to lose the fight when Jon suddenly inserted one of his fingers into her passage, hitting a spot that made her squirm with pleasure. “Fuck me, you’re good at that,” she wheezed.

Jon grinned victoriously against her neck. “You still haven’t told me,” he whispered to her. “Did you enjoy having another woman’s tongue in your cunt?”

“J-Jon,” she protested weakly. “I-it’s not proper.”

“Says who?” Jon asked as he finally managed to unbutton her shirt.

“I. . .” she was at a loss for words.

“Who have the rights to say what is and isn’t proper in our bed except for the two of us?” he asked as he tore off her smallclothes. “Who are they to say how I please my wife?”

Alys cooed when he finally sheathed himself inside her, both of them enjoying the slow sensuous pace he set. “So we should just keep bringing women into our bed should we?” she asked him while her eyes were narrowed slightly.

Jon kissed her, his tongue eagerly caressing her own, while he used his hands to lock her legs behind his back. “I would never take another woman into our bed without you,” he told her gently. “Would I like if we continued taking other women into our bed? Certainly,” he said. “But if you told me you’d never want me touching another woman again, then I wouldn’t. . . I love you,” he said, almost as surprised as Alys seemed, at the very real and sudden realization that he _did_ in fact love her.

What wasn’t to love? She was beautiful, funny, smart, she loved their children, _both_ of them, even though Lyarra wasn’t from her own womb.

“You-you love me?” she asked weakly, her eyes suspiciously moist.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I lov-mmmph!” he was cut off as Alys hungrily claimed his lips and tongue in a heated kiss while at the same time reversing their position, eagerly riding him faster and faster until both of them slumped over as their bodies finally got their release. “If I knew telling you that I love you would get that kind of reaction I’d have told you long ago,” he mumbled as she snuggled against him, grunting slightly as she punched him in the ribs.

“Arianne should get into art,” Alys mumbled approvingly, as she lightly caressed the latticework of scratches that Arianne had left on his chest and back the night before.

“Where are those two Dornish wenches?” Jon asked curiously.

“I. . . sent them away earlier when we woke up, you were still sleeping like a rock.”

Jon looked at Alys who was avoiding her eyes and blushing that lovely red shade once again. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked suspiciously as he tilted her head towards him, only to watch in fascination as she blushed deeper, though there was something very. . . smug about her look as well.

“You. Little. Wench!” he exclaimed. “You fucked them again didn’t you?” he asked as he did his best to seem scandalized, though in all actuality he was aroused and impressed. “Right next to where your poor husband was sleeping unaware.”

They held their mask for perhaps a few seconds before both of them broke out into laughter. “M’lord and Lady Stark,” the voice from one of their maidservants sounded through the door. “Your bath has been drawn up.”

Thanking the maid both Jon and Alys regretfully made their way out of the bed to get started on the day. Bathing and dressing. Alys went to check up on the children while Jon checked to see if any messages had arrived during the night or early morning.

There was little of any consequence at least. A letter from Walder Frey asking for him to betroth his son to one of Walder’s girls or grandchildren or whatever, that letter was gleefully put into the basket where he kept all his other correspondence from Old Walder. Come winter it could be used as kindling, or he could always donate it to the smallfolk to wipe their arses with, he knew most would gladly wipe their arse with the paper that a Lord had written on.

Another letter from the Watch asked for men to take the Black, and if Jon’s suspicions were correct there’d probably be a few men who would be most eager to take the Black after last night’s revelry, rather than lose a hand or cock or even his head. Big big celebrations and copious amounts of alcohol always resulted in someone doing something that they weren’t supposed to.

Resolving to check later if there were anyone who were keen on taking the Black, Jon penned a quick letter to his uncle, not only to apologize for the. . . incident in the south with Gregor Clegane, but also to perhaps warn him about the sudden influx of Dornishmen in the North.

As he walked down to the great hall to get some food Jon felt a large amount of pity for the servants who would no doubt be kept busy all day as a result of the previous evening. Mugs, cutlery and even clothes were scattered here and there in the hallway, as were people it seemed, a great number of the Dornish nobles had apparently passed out in the hallways rather than try to seek lodgings. As had Northmen apparently Jon noted with no small amount of amusement when he came across the Smalljon who was down to his smallclothes, and hugging the small doll made from silk with gems for eyes to his chest.

For that matter Jon wasn’t the only one who had noted the Smalljon’s rather peculiar sleeping spot in the middle of the hallway, as more than one had done his or most likely her part in decorating his shivering flesh with all sorts of makeup so that he now more resembled a rainbow than a fearsome Northern Lord who would become the Umber of Last Hearth one day.

The hall itself was still relatively empty, most of his guests still abed, trying in vain to get rid of their hangovers, but a few people were already awake, with the exception of the servants who were already scurrying back and forth to try and clean and tidy everything up, while others came out with trays of eggs, fish and bacon, cheese fruits and bread.

Of Jon’s immediate friends only Robar was already awake. Technically one could say that both Edric and Gendry were awake where they say in a corner on one of the lower tables, but from how green the two boys looked to be, Jon realized that trying to engage either of them would be at _best_ and exercise in futility and at worst would result in a spray of vomit.

Seeing that Alys still hadn’t come down Jon decided to break his fast alone, though not without company. Oberyn, Ellaria, Arianne and all his daughters were already seated, along with Robar who was discussing proper lance technique with Prince Oberyn.

“Prince, Princess, ladies,” Jon greeted as he sat down and started to shovel eggs and sausages onto a plate. “Princess,” Jon said suddenly, “No need to remain standing, take a seat,” because the Princess was indeed standing, and sending the occasional glare towards Nymeria who looked fit to burst.

“I’ll. . . stand My Lord,” Arianne said slowly as she studied the cup of tea she was just handed by a red faced maid, and like her cousin Nymeria who had also gotten one both of the Dornish women seemed to be bracing themselves in preparation to drink it.

“What my dear cousin means,” Nymeria started with a grin. “Is that she might have pulled a muscle or something last night,” she finished as Arianne gave her a look the promised murder. As soon as the Dornish Princess looked away however Nymeria gave her a swift slap on the rump causing Arianne to angrily throw her cup of scalding tea straight in Nymeria’s face.

“YOU BITCH!” both of them roared as they tried to physically assault one another, only to be snatched back in the nick of time by the rest of their family.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Oberyn explained with an amused grin. “They do this every month or so.”

Jon shook his head, just as amused as Oberyn. “Sounds like I would’ve had a lot of fun if I’d grown up in Dorne.”

Ellaria giggled. “I’m not sure Dorne could fit the ego and chaos of both Oberyn Martell and Jon Stark,” she teased.

“I’ll get you for that my dear,” Oberyn murmured as he kissed his way all over her neckline.

A sudden roar of fury, or humiliation; Jon always had trouble identifying which signalled that Smalljon Stagsbane had woken up and discovered his present state. “Now it begins,” Jon murmured to Oberyn.

Indeed it had begun. Stagsbane had stormed into the great hall in a rage and started to demand to know who had violated him so, though with him standing there naked save for his smallclothes, bedecked in a myriad of colours and still holding a small doll had not done anything to calm him down as the majority of the inhabitants in the hall had just laughed harder the more furious the big man got.

It took Jon twenty minutes of trying to calm him down to no avail, only for Alys to do it in less than a minute, though the fashion in which she did so was the dirtiest form of cheating Jon had seen to date. Rather than try to reason with the big man who was glaring and threatening everyone who appeared before his eyes Alys simply pushed baby Torrhen into his arms and told him to sit down and shut up, that Torrhen had chosen _that_ exact moment to open his eyes and giggle at the sight of the Smalljon’s face just proved Jon’s suspicions that it had been planned by Alys from the start as the Smalljon took one look at the cherubic face of Jon’s youngest? Son and melted. The rest of the breakfast had been spent with Jon throwing dirty looks at Alys who simply oozed smugness from where she daintily ate her own meal, at least entertainment was had with the near naked Stagsbane cooing and making all sorts of funny sounds and faces at Torrhen and Lyarra, both of whom were delighted at their newest ‘toy’.

 

“Gods’ fucking dammit Edd,” Jon snarled as an out of breath Edd came storming into the hall a good six hours or so later. Jon had spent all day trying to come to grips with how much food and drink had been consumed the day before, and he thanked his lucky stars that they had such a well stocked larder after all the gifts they’d received so far, as they had consumed more food in one night than they normally did in weeks. He had also forked out near four hundred gold dragons to the various inns and tap-houses in the small city in and around the Moat, whom he had told to serve food and drink for free the previous night and day.

Furthermore it had become evident that mixing thousands of Dornishmen with thousands of Northmen and a few hundred Valemen was a recipe to either a really great party, or a catastrophe waiting to happen. Half a dozen honour duels had been fought, a drunken horserace had been arranged, though the most impressive and confusing incident was of the man who brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel, no one, not even the man in question knew how or why he’d done it. Another man who Jon was determined to award had mistakenly stumbled across an entrance to a set of very old catacombs that ran inside the large hill the fortress proper stood on, and from the size of the tunnels they had been dug by the children of the forest thousands of years ago.

All in all, he was amazed that no one had been killed, and that every building was still standing, though Maester Rolland would be liable to start a murder tally with the amount of people who were crowding him for treatment.

“A raven from Winterfell Jon,” Edd said after he caught his breath. “The King rides for Winterfell, he’ll be here soon enough.”

Jon frowned, what on earth could bring the King up north again so soon? “Does it say anything else?” he asked Edd who started to explain as much as he could. The death of Jon Arryn, and subsequent death of Lysa and Robert Arryn was quite a shock, and considering the timing there could be only one thing the King was after.

“The King means to make your uncle the next Hand,” Oberyn said a nearly a week later as he and Jon were walking along the battlements, Sandor being the only person with them, walking faithfully a few steps behind.

Jon had at first been somewhat hesitant to have Sandor in the same room as Oberyn, the Prince himself had not seemed pleased when he met Sandor. Sandor had just sneered, ‘My brother was a fucking cunt who murdered my sister so we have that in common little Prince’ after that Oberyn seemed to have warmed towards the imposing man. Jon doubted they would ever be friends or even like each other, but so long as Oberyn didn’t try to kill Sandor, Jon couldn’t really give a fuck. Good help after all was generally not easy to find.

“Aye you have the right of it,” Jon agreed. “And I have a bad feeling about it all.”

Oberyn smiled grimly. “Neither of our Houses have had much joy come from getting tangled up in King’s Landing.”

Grunting non-committally Jon narrowed his eyes as he looked down the causeway of the neck where a small party closed in. A dozen horses or so, along with two large carts, the closest one was steered by a fat man with a very small man seated beside him.

“Looks like the Imp of Casterly Rock,” Oberyn mused as he spotted the small party, no doubt having noticed the Lannister cloaks on a few of the riders. “And the rest of them look to be wearing the livery of House Tarly of Horn Hill.”

Jon blinked, the Imp, here? He hadn’t seen that one coming. “I expected a few men from House Tarly, Lord Randyll promised me two carts of wheat, grain and barley but fuck me if I know why the Imp is here.”

Oberyn laughed bitterly. “If the rumours are true you’ve made a friend for a lifetime.”

Jon looked askance at the Dornish Prince, awaiting an answer.

“Anything that makes his father or sister angry is something he fully supports, and you’ve made a mockery of House Lannister lately.”

Jon took an exaggerated step away from Oberyn. “Careful my Prince,” he japed. “I’ll fear for my virtue if you continue to flatter me so.”

Jon had done his best to ever forget the kiss that Oberyn gave him. Not that he judged Oberyn, nor any other man for that matter who enjoyed the company of the same sex, but fucking men wasn’t exactly his mug of ale.

Oberyn for his part just laughed as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You shouldn’t throw something before you’ve tried it, I’m sure that after a night with me and Ellaria we could change your mind.”

Jon snorted slightly. “I’m sure you could,” he said doubtfully, “But I am more than pleased with my love life already.”

“I should think so,” Oberyn laughed. “Why both my niece as well as Nymeria and Tyene seems to have enjoyed both you and your wife on more than one night.”

Jon gulped ever so slightly, Oberyn after all had a reputation.

“Oh do not fret,” he laughed. “My niece and daughters are perfectly capable of fucking whom they well please.”

It was true he supposed. Both Nymeria and Tyene had both said that their father wouldn’t care, yet Jon had tried his best to keep it quiet, though from the amount of knowing looks he got he suspected that most, if not all knew that he and his wife had taken other women into their bed. He had kept true to his vow to not bed anyone else unless his wife was the one to bring them. Alys had lasted two full days until Tyene and Arianne had managed to talk her into a new romp, the first for Tyene, and second one for Arianne. How they managed to make his wife cave in he never did find out, then again, he supposed that he never thought that hard about it either, as all three of them had already been at it for some time when he found them in his bed, and he had been far more concerned about joining in than questioning how or why.

“How long have you known?” Jon asked nervously.

“Since the morning after our arrival,” Oberyn grinned. “From the way Arianne was refusing to sit, it was quite easy to work out.”

Jon grinned too as he thought back on it. Arianne’s arse was a work of art, and the Dornish Princess had proven in their later tumbles that she enjoyed having a cock up her arse, same as there were few things Tyene like better than to have a tongue slithering between her folds while she sucked greedily on a cock. Nymeria on the other hand enjoyed those things of course, but her true weakness was her teats, the nipples in particular. If one knew what to do with one’s lips or tongue or even fingers one could easily reduce the Dornish bastard to a quivering screaming wreck with nothing more than careful or sometimes rough treatment of her nipples.

“Was it your first time?” Oberyn asked suddenly, almost causing Jon to swallow a mouthful of wine down the wrong pipe.

“My first time what?” he asked.

“Your first time taking someone in the rear?” at Jon’s nod Oberyn sighed and threw an arm across Jon’s somewhat confused shoulders.

“I remember my first time quite vividly,” he started “I was three and ten and entered the finest brothel in Sunspear.” Oberyn took a sip of his own wine as he get a slightly faraway look in his eyes. “I fucked my first man that day, though I must confess I thought him a girl at the moment of entry.”

Jon snickered, and from the choked laughter behind him he knew that Sandor had heard it too. “What do you think Sandor?” Jon asked the tall brute. “That Prince Oberyn couldn’t tell arse from quim?” he japed, narrowly avoiding a half-hearted slap from said Prince.

The Hound grinned, a somewhat disturbing image when taking his ruined face into account, but somehow comforting at the same time, that such a monstrous man could do something like an honest grin. “I hear many Dornish have that same problem,” he stated, causing Oberyn to laugh.

“We’re not so repressed in Dorne,” he defended himself. “There are far too many joys to be found in the bedchamber to limit oneself to just one sex.”

“Good try Prince Oberyn,” Jon said, “but I’m afraid that you are no nearer to find your way into my bed.”

“Ah, it was worth a try,” Oberyn said with a shrug. “And the best part is that I’ll keep trying just for the fun of it.”

“Fucking randy Dornishmen,” Jon grumbled as they started to walk back to the courtyard. “Out of curiosity,” Jon said suddenly. “How long are you Dornishmen planning to stay?”

“Bored of us already my Lord?” Oberyn asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Hardly,” Jon said. “However with the King coming north, I do expect to follow him to Winterfell, he’ll most likely demand it at any rate.”

Oberyn stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps we’ll stay to meet the King, if only to see him and his family squirm,” he said while grinning. “But after that I suspect most will return south to Dorne.”

“Most?” Jon questioned.

“I’ve travelled all over the world,” Oberyn said. “But I never visited the North before, and since I am here I might as well see if Winterfell is as grand as they say, not to mention the Wall, the greatest structure ever built some say.”

“You are welcome to stay of course,” Jon told him. “But you should try to eat as little as possible during mealtimes.”

“Oh?” Oberyn asked, curiosity apparent on his face.

“Oh yes,” Jon said with a grin. “The Queen and her fucking spawn of a son have wished me dead and called for my head more than once. So I fully intend to serve nothing more than bread and our cheapest ale during meals, we’re obviously saving our limited larder for winter.”

Oberyn laughed uproariously. “Be as discourteous as possible while still being accommodating, I like it,” he said.

“Yes well, at least they’ll have food from my table which is more than I can say for the Prince, he’ll have to find himself lodgings in a tavern.”

“You think the King will accept that?” Oberyn asked.

Jon nodded. “When I tell him that he sent Sandor here after me to take my head I think the King will be more than understanding when I refuse the Prince guest right or accommodations.”

“Hah,” Oberyn laughed. “Truly you must have been born in Dorne,” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “But I have the distinct advantage of being in the King’s good graces, so I have that going for me.”

By this point they had entered the courtyard, and the party of Westermen and Reach men were passing through the gates. As Oberyn said it was the Lannister Imp who had ridden on one of the carts, and he looked around curiously.

Small, with a forehead that was too large for his face, one eye black as the night and another one that was the typical Lannister green, and blond hair that switched from golden to almost white.

“Lord Stark,” he said as he bowed slightly. “I am Tyrion Lannister.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon said politely. “Might I enquire as to why you are here?”

“To congratulate and thank you of course,” The Imp said without missing a beat. “Never in my whole life have I seen my father so furious as when he learned that you had killed one Clegane and lured the other one into your service.”

“And so you felt it was only natural to come and visit?” Jon questioned.

“Naturally,” Tyrion agreed with a smile. “Besides, I always wanted to see the world like my uncles did when they became men, instead my father set me to task with managing all the cisterns in Casterly Rock.”

Jon looked curiously at the Imp, was he serious about that?

“A most highborn plumber,” Oberyn japed.

“Shit never flowed better,” Tyrion said imperiously. “However seeing as my father told me to leave his sight I figured that it meant that I could leave Casterly Rock and discover the world.”

A bit of a stretch Jon supposed, but there were many ways to interpret ‘Leave my sight’ he should know, having done the same thing often enough, though never to the point of leaving the North. “And so you came North.”

Tyrion nodded. “I intend to stand on the edge of the Wall and piss of the edge of it, then I suppose I’ll make my way south or across the sea to Essos.”

Jon studied the little lion further, sinking deeper into that ‘animalistic’ side of him, that so easily let him warg into animals, and even gave him some of their instincts, one such instinct was the ability to ‘sense’ to some degree if a person was trustworthy, and he could feel no deception, no tingling on the back of his neck to indicate that Tyrion had any malevolent designs by coming here. “Very well,” Jon said at least, enjoying how Tyrion’s eyes widened in surprise and interest at seeing Jon’s eyes turn to amber. “I welcome you to Moat Cailin, Lord Tyrion. Guest Right will be yours.”

“Thank you Lord Stark,” Tyrion said with a bow. “I would love to continue to stay out here to continue to chat, but alas it has been a long journey and I would welcome the chance to eat and drink before a blazing hearth.”

“Sandor will take care of it,” Jon said as he looked at Sandor to see if he had any objections.

Sandor just nodded and walked towards Tyrion. “Come here little man,” he said gruffly as he guided Tyrion into the castle.

“And who might you be?” Jon asked the one who had ridden beside Tyrion on the cart.

“Sa-Samwell T-Tarly.”

“Son of Randyll Tarly?” Oberyn asked.

“The s-same my P-Prince,” he stuttered, obviously familiar enough with Dornish Houses to recognize Oberyn.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jon said. “I’m honoured that Lord Tarly would send me his son to deliver his promised gifts, but I must ask why he would do so.”

Sam winced slightly. “He t-told me to ask if you m-might not take me under your wing and make a man out of me, either that or I’d go and t-take the Black.”

Jon frowned. “Making a man out of you should be easy enough. There are more than enough whores here, Prince Oberyn can probably supply you with greater detail on the subject.”

Sam blushed scarlet. “I-that isn’t- what I mean is. . .”

“I think,” Oberyn said as he cut off the stuttering young man. “That what young Tarly means is that his father wants you to make him into a proper man rather than a frightened boy.”

“Is this true?” Jon asked.

“Ye-yes,” Sam stuttered. “I’m a craven, a-always have been.”

“Hmm,” Jon mused as he thought hard on what to do. “I think I might enjoy this challenge, mayhap you’ll agree to help me Prince Oberyn?”

Oberyn too seemed to be somewhat intrigued. “I think I will, getting the boy started on whores should be a good start I think.”

Sam once again tried as best he could to stutter his denials only for them to be waved away by Jon and Oberyn. “Your father doesn’t like whores does he?” Oberyn asked, causing Sam to nod vehemently in agreement.

“And do you like your father?”

“Pr-Prince Oberyn,” Sam asked with wide eyes.

“Simple question boy,” Oberyn asked. “DO you like your father? Who apparently told you to either go up north and become a man or join the Watch.”

Sam looked around desperately to see if any of the guards his father had sent with him were listening, but all of them were already busy loading off the carts with the help of some on Jon’s own men.

“No,” Sam finally said. “He’s always looked down on me, shouted at me, beat me, mocked my interests, always told me I wasn’t worthy of him. . .”

Jon felt a pang of sympathy as Sam seemed to literally pour out years upon years of anger, frustration and pain. “Well,” Jon said when Sam finally seemed to be done. “Best way to build up some faith in yourself is to do _exactly_ what your father wouldn’t want you to do.”

“I agree,” Oberyn said. “If your father don’t like whore that is his problem, but you. . .You’ll find that they can be most accommodating.” And before Sam could even try to protest he was already being led through the castle gate towards the whorehouse in the lower levels, and Jon watched with amazement as ‘Hurricane’ Oberyn once again completely overwhelmed a poor sod who had no idea how to deal with the middle aged man who seemed to have more energy than ten men combined.

After Sam and Oberyn disappeared from sight Jon noted to himself to talk to Gendry. If Sam could somehow lose some or much of his weight and build some muscle, surely it would help the young man’s self esteem issues, and if there was one thing Jon knew, it was the Gendry could make any man lose weight by having them hammer steel into shit all day long, said Baratheon bastard was much stronger and well built than even Jon, and Jon practiced his craft for hours every day.

* * *

The week and a half leading up to the King’s arrival flew by in a tremendous pace. While somewhat sceptical at first the curious mix of Northmen, Valemen and Dornishmen quickly grew to develop a liking to Tyrion Lannister who was by all accounts not just a very intelligent man, but also full of snarky humour, the fact that he seemed to absolutely despise his father, sister and eldest nephew went a long way to make people accept him. The tales he produced after he was plied with enough wine was greatly amusing, though Jon swore to never touch a turtle stew in his life after hearing how Tyrion had ‘made the bald man cry’ into the turtle stew that his sister had proceeded to eat, though Tyrion was immensely disappointed when he learned that another man had apparently taken a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel a mere few days before he himself showed up.

Speaking of the brothel, the whores had nothing but glowing praise for Tyrion who had spent far more time (and gold) there than he did in the castle. He also struck up an easy camaraderie with Sam during the evening where they hungrily poured over the collection of books in Jon’s admittedly small library. Speaking of the library, Jon had a strong suspicion that had Sam not had other ‘duties’ he would have gladly holed himself up in the library night and day, sadly though for Sam he _did_ have other ‘duties’.

It took Oberyn no more than three days to get Sam to quit blushing around women no doubt due to the numerous visits to the brothel at Oberyn’s insistence, to be honest Jon suspected the Dornish Prince had probably threatened the pudgy boy at spearpoint. Every morning Jon would force Sam out into the practice yard and patiently taught him to swing a sword, though it became apparent after only the second day that an axe or hammer would suit the young man much better as, despite all appearances he was quite stronger than he looked, and eventually Jon had finally managed to coax Sam into something resembling resistance when someone struck at him.

The key, apparently to coaxing out any fight from the book loving Tarly was to make him angry, and the best way to get him angry was discovered by accident one morning when Sam, who had gone hungry at the limited diet Jon had forced upon him to ‘slim’ him down somewhat decided to pick a few mushrooms and eat them.

Everyone in the North knew not to eat those mushrooms, had known for so many generations that no one actually knew why, though they got a smart reminder as Sam flew into a hysterical rage after eating a few, maintaining just enough control to absolutely demolish three of the heavy wooden practice dummies with a great battleaxe of black steel that Jon had received a couple of hundred off from the Umbers. Upon seeing the result of eating that particular mushroom that was native to the North, Jon quietly ordered Rolland to investigate the properties further, mayhap they could do something useful with it.

Though horrified at how he had acted, the burst of berserker rage he had been in had ‘broken’ something in Sam, and he started to actually improve in the sparring ring. While Jon knew that Sam would never be a great warrior by any ‘technical’ matters, he would certainly be able to make corpses out of men, the trick to it seemed get angry, at least according to Sam. And Sam had guiltily admitted to Jon one day that he usually thought about his father, or any number of the fellow noble boys he had grown up around who had done their best to make his life hell by constantly bullying him.

Getting him somewhat fit seemed to be the easiest part actually, helped in no small part with Gendry, who upon Jon’s command was working what seemed to be day and night in the forges crafting arms and armour. Who knew that hammering steel or working the bellows for eight hours every day could cause such rapid change? Sam had already lost over one stone in under two weeks, and seemed to be building up stamina too as Jon always forced Sam to join him on his daily jog/run around the lower wall of Moat Cailin, and when the day was done Sam would gleefully barricade himself in the library with Tyrion and Rolland every night to read or discuss, a prospect that quite frankly worried Jon somewhat. Rolland alone, and with free times and idle hands was a worrying prospect, his love for all things that could potentially go ‘boom’ or burn or generally make another man’s life unpleasant was bad enough, But when you added Tyrion and Sam, both who were quite smart, and in Tyrion’s case also quite devious and with a hidden sadistic streak a mile wide into the mix things could get quite unpleasant.

Already they had somehow managed to create an instrument of terror. It had been Sam’s idea to start with. Sam who had always loved the sound of flute music had decided to try his hand in making one, and having heard of the ocarina’s that were so popular in the east had tried to make one from scratch. However, never having seen one in person he had to go by imagination, and ended up with something that when he blew in it the first time had made Jon and several others grab their swords and look wildly around for whoever was dying a horrible death.

Instead of making sweet soft music, the flute in question made a sound that resembled a terrifying death scream, the harder one blew the more terrifying the scream. Upon hearing it for the first time Tyrion, who was well into his cups by that point had suggested to mould the next one into the shape of a grinning skull, a suggestion which Rolland had been more than pleased with judging by his cackles, while Sam sat there in transfixed horror, no doubt wondering what he had created.

Another incident had been when Rolland nearly burnt down his chambers. Rolland, being a man who liked his drink was trying to make something with a bit more ‘kick’ to it than your normal ale, wine or beer, or even aquavit for that matter and had happily tried various forms of distilling alcohol. He eventually managed to distil something that was strong enough that a small sip felt like getting kicked in the head by a horse, however when he had removed the glass jug in which most of it was contained he dropped it due to the heat of the glass. Upon smashing open on the table the potent alcohol was transformed into a magnificent fireball upon meeting the naked flame of the candle, thus burning away what little hair Rolland had left, including his eyebrows.

Something else that had changed due to Tyrion arriving and informing Jon that Tywin would not let Jon’s insults go unanswered was that Jon had ordered Gendry to increase his output in the forge. An additional twelve smiths and apprentices had arrived for a semi-permanent stay to forge as much armour and weapons as possible. Iron and charcoal came in shipments almost daily for the smiths to shape into steel, with Jon putting aside ten thousand gold dragons for the project. Apparently in King’s Landing the price for a high quality, if unadorned suit of plate armour with accompanying chainmail and padding came in at five dragons, five dragons for that part was enough to purchase as much as twenty to forty swords of castle forged steel, depending on size and ornamentation. And after consulting with Sam, Rolland and the smiths he figured that they would probably have roughly twelve hundred suits of full plate, enough armour for three hundred horses, and enough swords, shields axes and spears to outfit five or six thousand. More than he would probably ever need, but better to be prepared and not need them, than to need them and not have them. It would take time of course, but Gendry figured that they would be done within the year, which was great news to Jon, the sooner things were ready the better.

Other matters that took up his daily time was petitions from the smallfolk, reports from town mayors and the like. The general mood of the populace in Moat Cailin and the hamlets and towns surrounding it was good. There had been much complaining in the beginning what with Jon forcing them to practice so and so many hours a week on a longbow, or leaving their farms or businesses behind for three months so be taught to a certain degree how to swing a sword or form and operate a shieldwall to any degree of efficiency, but mood turned to the better when the men began seeing the results, in the form of appreciative eyes from the womenfolk. Small local archery tournaments were held regularly enough at Jon’s suggestion, with the winner claiming a purse of a single dragon, often divided into a mix of silvers and coppers. Sadly, all good things does eventually come to an end, as Jon found out one day when Edric in his capacity as Jon’s page/squire pounded on Jon’s door _just_ as he’d laid down in the tub for a bath.

“This had better be important Edric,” Jon snarled as he started to dry himself off.

“Father is coming,” the boy jabbered excitedly.

Jon sighed. “Very well, run off to the kitchens and tell them that the King is arriving.”

“Yes M’lord,” Edric shouted as he ran off, leaving Jon to chuckle fondly, had he ever had that kind of energy when at that age? He was probably just as bad if not worse he admitted to himself as he finished dressing.

“I see you’ve heard the King is coming love,” Alys told him as they met on the way down to the courtyard.

“Aye, and if he is bringing his wife and son as we’ve heard then they are in for a nasty surprise. . .well their palate at any rate.”

Alys giggled slightly. “Serves them right for trying to take you away from me.”

“Oh,” he asked with exaggerated surprise.

“You’re _mine_ ,” she snarled as she suddenly pushed him against the wall to kiss him, while her hand fondled him through his breeches. “And _no one_ will take you away from me before I’ve had my fill of this,” she whispered as she gave his hardening cock a last squeeze.

“You’re a cruel wench, leaving a man like this,” Jon called at her retreating back. Alys knew damn fucking well that they didn’t have time for a quick tumble before the King arrived, and true to her capricious nature had decided to give him a hard one to make the rest of his day uncomfortable. Shaking his head in part fondness and part irritation Jon hurried after his wife, he had a King to receive, and a Prince and Queen to subtly slight while appearing to be the gracious host.

  


_ **AN/: A good weekend to ya all.** _

_ **Cheers** _

_ **Daemon Belaerys.** _

_ **Hoping to finish next chapter of Bloody Wolf tomorrow. I'll grab meself a mug of tea, some snacks, turn on the music and write the damn thing in one sitting. Wish me luck.** _


	9. On to Winterfell

**Disclaimer:** **Nokkuð sem þú kannast ekki tilheyra mér svo allir lögmenn geta ríða burt. . .fucking foreign disclaimer, sorry that I couldn‘t find an english speaking one at such short notice.**

 

**Moat Cailin:**

 

Jon stood in the courtyard right before the doors that led into the fortress. Alys was standing at his right hand, Lyarra and Torrhen placed between them, their small hands clasped in Jon and Alys‘ while they stood on somewhat wobbly legs. As Oberyn and Arianne were somewhat guests of honour and of higher status than anyone else they stood closest to Jon on his left side, while others such as Robar Royce and Smalljon Stagsbane stood beside them again.

 

Jon knew that the Queen despised him, and the sight of her least favourite Lannister in the world standing beside Alys would no doubt infuriate her even further, but he was still intending to impress. In addition to the majority of the household being there, Jon had five hundred men fully armed and armoured standing at attention, their gleaming breastplates, swords and shields shining brightly in the sun.

 

Leading the Royal procession were twelve men-at-arms or Knights riding in pairs of two‘s, six in Lannister garb and six bearing the black stag upon a golden surcoat of Baratheon soldiers. Then came the Kingsguard, led by Ser Barristan Selmy himself who despite having escorted the King to Jon‘s wedding he had never actually spoken with. Jaime Lannister as always looked like a prancing fool with his soft effeminate features and ridiculous wavy hair that gleamed like spun gold.

 

The Prince followed next, escorted by a piggish man with long dark hair, cruel brown eyes and an even crueler sneer, a black manticore on a field of red was his sigil and before Jon could wrack his brains for the identity of the man Prince Oberyn spat out, “Amory Lorch,“ and Jon suddenly understood, and got an all too unhealthy appreciation for how his uncle Ned must have felt like over the years, no doubt Jon would have to watch Prince Oberyn like a hawk to ensure that nothing happened.

 

Behind the Prince was King Robert himself who rode in front of the biggest waste of money Jon had ever laid eyes on. An opulent and ridiculously large wheelhouse, bedecked in reds and gold, so large that it required a team of forty horses to pull it along. The moment the King dismounted, with the help of his squire who propped a box beside the King‘s horse, Jon and everyone else, both guests and members of the household knelt.

 

“JON,” King Robert yelled as he physically grabbed Jon to his feet and tried his best to crush him in a hug. “You. . .still haven’t got fat,” Robert japed as he released Jon and took a good look.

 

“What I haven’t gotten seems to have been taken by you Your Grace,” Jon japed. “I thank you for the sacrifice you’re making on my behalf.”

 

People gasped, and if Jon was completely honest, the sour look on the Queen’s face was almost as good as fucking a beautiful woman after a long day. “HAH!” Robert laughed, not at all insulted. “I don’t think you could have gotten fat if you tried, not even ten and seven and you killed the Mountain.” Robert slapped Jon on the back with a laugh before turning to Ser Jaime who was doing his absolute best to look like a condescending prick, and if Jon was to admit the truth, the Kingslayer’s effeminate features certainly leant themselves well to condescending looks.

 

“See here Kingslayer?” Robert asked as he threw an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “THIS is what a true warrior looks like, not unlike some whose only kills I recall to be old men, eh Barristan?”

 

Fuck but it was pleasing to see the Kingslayer fume like a naughty child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar, of course, Ser Barristan saying ‘One of the most impressive fights I’ve seen Your Grace,’ probably didn’t help the Kingslayer’s ego at all.

 

“Uncle Jaime could beat him anytime,” Prince Joffrey said, finally opening his mouth at last, from where he sat sulking on top of his horse.

 

“Ah, it was god of you to speak Prince Joffrey,” Jon said. “Gives me an excuse to get things out of the way, such as it is.”

 

“Get what out of the way?” Robert asked suddenly.

 

“Well. . .” Jon paused, trying to find the right words. “You probably remember Sandor here,” Jon said as he gestured for the last living Clegane to step forward.

 

“Clegane,” Robert said as his eyes widened ever so slightly. “The fuck you doing here?”

 

“Yes Sandor,” Jon said. “Tell our King just _why_ you told Joffrey and the Lannisters to fuck off and then rode north with all haste.”

 

Robert’s eyes narrowed, no doubt already suspecting where this was going.

 

“When Lord Stark killed my brother the Prince ordered me to ride north and bring back his head,” Sandor explained simply, and Jon felt a stab of affection for the big brute, simplicity rather than flowery words were always appreciated up north.

 

“LIES!” Cersei and Joffrey both shouted at the same time while Robert glared at his son.

 

“GET. HERE. BOY!” He snarled at Joffrey who dithered atop his horse. “NOW!” he barked, finally causing the young Prince to get out of his saddle and wearily step in front of his furious father. “Is it true?” Robert asked with a furious whisper. “Did you send your sworn shield to kill a Lord of the Realm? The son of a man whom I cared for as a brother, the nephew of a man who IS my brother in all but blood? ANSWER ME BOY!”

 

Joffrey the poor prick shook like a leaf at every single one of the King’s words, stubbornly refusing to answer in lieu of closing his eyes and staring sullenly at the ground. “Father,” he whimpered only to fall to the ground with a squeal of pain, his mother’s shrieks accompanying his own as Robert drove his fist into his cheeks.

 

“Fucking ingrate,” Robert snarled. “You’re to be King one day, do you understand that? If you continue to treat your Lords and subjects like that you’ll likely end up without a head for your troubles.”

 

Joffrey simply cried while his mother continued to fuss over him, and while he may not care for the little golden shit, Jon did feel a stab of sympathy for him. He was going to get one hell of a bruise, and from what Joffrey spat out would likely also be missing a few teeth.

 

“I’m sorry about that Jon,” Robert said.

 

“It’s in the past Your Grace,” Jon answered diplomatically, “But I’ll not have the Prince, his sworn sword nor any Lannister guard or bannermen in my keep. I can supply them with either tents outside the walls, or they can seek lodgings with their own coin. The Queen and your younger children, as well of the rest of your party shall naturally have bread and salt.”

 

“How _dare_ you?” Cersei hissed. “You would deny your own Prince?”

 

Jon stepped closer to the Queen and laid a hand on the pommel of his sword, causing the Kingsguard and several others, on ‘both’ sides to grab their own sword hilts. “I just knelt to a man who did exactly that,” Jon said coldly, almost enjoying how the Queen and Joffrey paled. “Worked out well enough for him didn’t it? As long as your son do no harm to me and mine, I won’t lift a finger against him, but if he does. . .” Jon trailed off, a vicious grin on his face. “Well. . . user your imaginations. . .My Queen,” he finished with a mocking bow.

 

“ENOUGH!” Robert yelled. “I’ll not have my family start a war over this, _especially_ as my own son is the instigator. KINGSLAYER, make sure my wife, eldest son and all the Lannister swords find somewhere to sleep,” he said while Jaime tried to protest. “Now Kingslayer,” he snarled, effectively silencing Ser Jaime.

 

For the briefest moment it seemed as the Kingslayer intended to refuse, either that or he contemplated his chance of killing Robert and getting away with it. “As you wish Your Grace,” he said finally as he did his best to shoo the Lannister guards out of the fortress courtyard, while Joffrey and Cersei followed him mulishly.

 

“How the fuck did I father such a son?” Robert asked weakly as he watched them march out.

 

“The usual way I assume Your Grace,” Jon quipped. “I’ve yet to hear of another way of begetting children.”

 

At least that raised Robert’s spirits somewhat. “Gods you’re so much like your father it almost painful. Just like your ant Lyanna too when I think on it,” Robert finished mournfully, neither of them noticing the sudden look of shock on Oberyn’s face, nor how his eyes narrowed in thought.

 

“Yes well,” Jon prevaricated. “My wife Alys as you no doubt remember,” Jon said as Alys curtsied slightly. “My daughter Lyarra, and of course my only son Torrhen.” Jon showed both of his ‘official’ children off to Robert, who took great delight at making funny faces at the two children.

 

“Only son that you know of eh?” Robert sniggered as he punched Jon’s arm, only to pale significantly when he suddenly spotted Oberyn who was watching either Robert or Jon himself with a very shark like grin that gave Jon a bad feeling, almost as if the Dornish Prince was privy to some big secret.

 

“Your Grace,” Oberyn mocked while bowing with a flourish.

 

“Ah,” Robert stated dully. “Prince Oberyn.”

 

“Oh no need to fear,” Oberyn comforted. “I find myself in an. . . exalted mood. Gregor Clegane dead, the Lannister’s humbled, why the only thing that could have made my day any better was if I could suddenly find out that Rhaegar’s children survived.”

 

Just what was so funny about that last bit Jon had no clue to, but whatever kept Oberyn happy also prevented Oberyn from knifing someone, so Jon was more than happy to let Oberyn’s weird notions be.

 

“Whatever,” Robert said. “Jon, I assume you’ll be feasting us tonight?”

Jon coughed. “Sadly Your Grace, it seems to be that we’ll be having rice, bread and ale,” Jon apologized. “Nothing left in my larder I am afraid.”

 

Robert almost gasped, the thought of eating so simply seemed to be anathema to him. “Why didn’t you tell me m’boy?” Robert asked. “Can’t have you running things here on an empty larder. Barristan,” he said suddenly as he turned to Barristan. “Remind me to write King’s Landing to have some food shipped up here, can’t have Brandon’s boy live on rice and bread.”

 

Barristan’s lips twitched, he had clearly seen through Jon’s ruse, but he seemed to either like Jon enough, or despise the King enough not to reveal it. “I’ll do so Your Grace,” he obligingly replied.

 

* * *

 

It was in the middle of the night when Jon woke up. It was due to Winter’s scratches and low growls that he woke up in the first place, and as he cleared the sleep from his eyes he could see the giant direwolf scratching furiously on the door, her litter of six pups all standing behind her.

 

“Alys,” Jon whispered to his wife who was still sleeping next to him. “Nevermind,” he mumbled as he nuzzled her neck, grinning slightly as she moaned and shifted in her sleep. “Alright, alright,” he said in the direction of the impatient direwolves as he groggily got out of the bed and dressed up lightly in a pair of leather trousers and a black woollen shirt, and after a moment of consideration he added a knife into his belt.

 

“Where are you going?” he questioned Winter who shot off down the corridors at a speed, the pups eagerly following their mother.

 

She was going quite far it seemed. Down the stairs, past the great hall, out into the courtyard past a pair of startled guards. The great direwolf continued to lead Jon through the large town between the fortress walls and the outer walls, down this street or around that corner, all the way out past the walls themselves until he was almost an hours walk away, and that is when he heard the screams.

 

A man was screaming in terrible agony, and as Jon got closer he saw who, and more importantly why. Tied to a tree was Amory Lorch, surrounding him were the three oldest Sand Snakes, Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne and five guards all bearing the Martell Sun and Spear.

 

“Nice night for a walk,” Jon said coolly while laying a restraining hand on Winter’s neck, she and her pups snarling and snapping their jaws angrily while baring their long pointy teeth.

 

“Lord Stark,” Oberyn replied. “I had not thought to see you here.”

 

“L-Lord Stark, you have to help me,” Lorch sobbed. “Th-they grabbed me in the night.”

 

“Help you?” Jon asked disbelievingly. “Why should I help you?”

 

Lorch’s eyes watered again as he looked pleadingly for help. “I-I am the sworn sword of the Prince, a family friend to the Queen. . .” when he realized that none of this was creating any sympathy he tried another path. “This-this is m-murder Lord Stark, surely you c-cannot approve this.”

 

“Murder?” Jon questioned. “I suppose its only murder when you kill the wrong person, isn’t it? Why I remember a tale about a young three year old girl. . .stabbed half a hundred times wasn’t she?” he questioned. “Wasn’t murder then was it?”

“I-it was war,” Lord blubbered. “I had orders.”

 

“Aye it was war,” Jon whispered as he stepped closer, standing beside Oberyn who held a dagger in his hand. “And regardless of what her father or grandfather did, Rhaenys Targaryen was no more than an innocent child, and you’ll find _Ser_ that I have no patience nor tolerance for child murderers.”

 

Jon looked over at Oberyn who had a grim, but approving smile on his face. “How do you want to handle this Prince Oberyn?”

 

“I want him to feel what my niece felt,” Oberyn snarled. “I want to drive this dagger into his belly half a hundred times and watch him die in agony as his guts pour out on the ground.”

 

A fitting end Jon thought. “Questions will be asked,” he said.

 

“I have three men here willing to take responsibility and take the Black.”

 

Jon looked at the three men that Oberyn pointed out. Three of the Martell guards with them, none of them looking a day younger than forty and Jon had to admit that he was impressed. Just as old men in the North told their families that they were going out hunting in the middle of winter as to spare their family from yet another mouth to feed, these three men were willing to spend the rest of their days on the wall to avenge their murdered Princess.

 

“Make sure they come to me in the morning to admit the deed.”

 

“To you?” Arianne questioned.

 

“Aye to me,” Jon replied. “The King may be here as my guest, but this is my castle, and I am the one who pronounces and executes sentences here,” he said darkly, recalling every single one of the few executions or hands he had taken in repayment for murder or stealing. “The man who passes the sentence swings the sword,” he explained further at their questioning looks. “He owes the condemned to look into his eyes before taking his head, for if a Lord cannot execute his duty, then perhaps the condemned do not deserve to die.”

 

“You northerners and your honour,” Tyene said with a grin.

 

“Its who we are My Lady,” Jon said with a shrug.

 

“NO!” Lorch shouted just before Oberyn plunged his dagger deep into Lorch’s belly.

 

Jon meanwhile stepped back and watched as the Martells, bastards or trueborn all fell on Lorch with their daggers. The man who disgraced every aspect of Knighthood screamed in pain and panic while pleading incessantly for his life, his pleads and screams losing volume with every thrust until he was finally silent. His head rested on his bloodied chest while his entrails rested at his feet.

 

“I didn’t know you respected the Old Gods so,” Jon told the confused Dornish. “The First Men used to over their enemies entrails to the Weirwoods after an execution,” he explained as he pointed out the Weirwood tree that they had tied Lorch to.

 

“Perhaps I’ll convert,” Oberyn japed. “You northerners are certainly more fascinating than the rest of the Realm would have us believe.

 

“Oh?” Jon asked as he raised an eyebrow.

“Uncultured and unwashed savages,” Oberyn said. “That’s the popular thoughts about the northmen in the rest of Westeros.”

 

Jon laughed. “Oh I am a savage,” he said. “But at least I am honest about what I am.”

 

“Thank you for this,” Oberyn said quietly. “I would have preferred Clegane, but I am glad you let me have this instead of trying to stop us.”

 

Jon nodded, he could only imagine how Oberyn must have felt all these years, knowing that the murderers of his family were not only free, but honoured by the King and Tywin Lannister for their monstrous acts.

 

“There’s still Tywin Lannister,” Jon offered with a slight smile.

 

“Yes,” Oberyn said slowly. “Lorch admitted that Tywin had ordered it before you came, but I don’t see any way to get to Tywin without starting any wars.”

 

Jon spat on the ground. “From what I’ve heard of Tywin, it is only a matter of time before he does something to have me killed, when he does loose that temper of his I’ll be ready, and I’ll dig him out of his little rock with my own hands if I have to.”

 

“When the time comes,” Oberyn said slowly. “I’ll do my best to see to it that you have as many spears that Dorne can provide, regardless of my brother’s desires for peace.”

 

“Then no more need to be said,” Jon told him. “Enjoy the rest of your night Prince Oberyn.”

 

* * *

 

“I should have your heads for this,” Robert snarled the next morning when three Dornishmen presented themselves to Jon and confessed that during the night they had snuck into the inn where Joffrey slept and proceeded to abduct Lorch so they could kill him outside the walls.

 

“I agree Your Grace,” Jon said gravely. “But at the same time, all three of these are quite the able men, considering their age, and the Watch is in dire need of more brothers.”

 

Robert looked fit to argue, but eventually sat down again, letting out a tired sigh as he did so. “Blast it boy, why do you have to be right so often?”

 

“It’s a gift Your Grace,” Jon said with a small smile before turning his eyes on the three ‘contrite’ Dornishmen. “You’ll be escorted to the Wall by a dozen of my best guards in chains, and if you try to set even a foot down south again I’ll take your heads myself understood?”

 

“Yes Lord Stark,” they responded with shivering voices, no doubt faked.

 

“Halys, see to it that this scum is brought out of my sight, I do not care to look at them,” Jon snapped to his Castellan.

 

“Yes M’Lord,” Halys replied as he and a few guardsmen started to drag the Dornishmen out of the hall.

 

“I apologize Your Grace,” Oberyn said with a voice that indicated he was not sorry at all. “I _never_ would have thought that some of my countrymen would just up and murder one of your loyal men in the middle of the night like that.”

 

Jon gaped at the audacity of the Dornish Prince, even if he had been drunk as a horse he wouldn’t have believed one word of the tripe Oberyn had just offered, and neither did Robert it seemed.

 

“Careful Martell,” he warned. “I have three confessions, furthermore I have no evidence that you were involved, but I want _no_ further bitching from Dorne. Clegane and Lord both are dead, so if Dorne doesn’t let things lie from now on I’ll root your entire fucking family out of Sunspear am I clear?”

 

Oberyn nodded just ever so slightly. “Inescapably so Your Grace.”

 

“Good,” Robert spat. “Now I am going out to get drunk and see my two bastards, and if anyone ruins my day when I get back by mentioning anything regarding Lorch, Clegane, Elia, her children or Tywin Fucking Lannister, I am going to smash some skulls.”

 

“Distemperate man,” Oberyn muttered, causing Jon to roll his eyes.

 

“What did you except? You practically baited him.”

 

Oberyn shrugged slightly before giving Jon a calculating look. “For the first time I actually understand and sympathise with Lyanna Stark for running away from that man.”

 

Jon huffed. “Rhaegar kidnapped and raped my aunt,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

“Did he?” Oberyn asked. “I’ve yet to see any proof of this.”

 

“My own father died when he went to King’s Landing to get justice for my aunt,” Jon bit back.

 

“Ah but who told your. . . father, that Lyanna was kidnapped hmm?” Oberyn questioned further. “That, is the great mystery, perhaps your uncle Eddard can provide you with an answer, and answer I myself is most interested in.”

 

Jon sighed, regardless of what he ‘knew’ about the situation Oberyn was right. Not once had Jon hear his Lord uncle say that Rhaegar had kindapped Lyanna Stark, and he himself was living proof that what ‘everyone knew’ was not always the truth as all of Westeros had believed for quite some time that he was Eddard Stark’s bastard son, rather than the son of Brandon Stark, only the North had suspected for some time, and that was because most Lords of the North had known Brandon in their youth.

 

“I’ll ask him when I go to Winterfell,” Jon said. “I assume you still intend to follow yes?”

 

“Yes,” Oberyn replied. “The rest of the Dornish leave on the morrow, Ellaria is the only one, with the exception of my guards who will be accompanying us to Winterfell.”

 

It was fortunate that Cersei and Joffrey were barred from the fortress, and that every single Lannister guard were watched like hawks, as the tantrum the pair threw was so bad that the poor innkeeper had taken his wife and children and hurried out of the inn and refused to return until he had a full dozen of Stark guards, who were all eager to be hosted at any time of the day for the duration of the Queen and Prince’s stay.

Robert had barely lasted a few more hours that day before he decided to go out for a hunt, apparently the diet of rice and bread did not suit his palate at all.

 

The next day the majority of the Dornish left, to Lyarra and Torrhen’s dismay, both of them had grown quite attached to Arianne and the Sand Snakes, Nymeria and Tyene in particular who doted upon them just as much as Jon and Alys were won’t to do, though Lyarra at least calmed quickly enough after turning her wide grey eyes on the Smalljon who quickly melted, and despite how much he grumbled when Lyarra did her best to groom his beard Jon could see that the big man was enjoying the attention, though he did worry when Jon mentioned that he would tell the Greatjon, no doubt worrying the big man that the Greatjon would only increase his efforts to see him wed.

 

It took Robert two more days before he decided that he had enough of bread and rice. He had no desire to wait for the month or so it would take for the large amount of various food he had ordered be brought up to Moat Cailin, so instead the King decided that they would ride on to Winterfell, and as expected he wanted Jon to join him.

 

Jon had been prepared for this, besides he had always intended to visit Winterfell one day soon anyhow, no doubt his uncle would be pleased to see his great niece and nephew, the chance to box Jon’s ears in probably wouldn’t be amiss either Jon acknowledged, the trouble he had incidentally caused in the south would no doubt had given his uncle more grey hairs. The Smalljon wasn’t so eager to go with them, if only for the fact that he had to return home sooner or later, and if he was really unlucky the Greatjon would be in Winterfell.

 

The journey itself was at least blessed with fair weather, which was fortunate considering how bloody long that fucking wheelhouse took, breaking down no less than six times, forcing them to spend hours fixing it, but when they finally laid eyes on Winterfell it was well worth it. The huge procession, almost a thousand men from the King’s party, while Jon himself rode with two hundred and fifty men entered through the gates of Winterfell, the entirety of Winterfell seemed to have shown up as both sides of the road was packed with men, women and children, either cheering the King or occasionally waving small banners of the black crowned stag on a field of yellow of House Baratheon.

 

“Ned,” Robert spoke jovially after he bade the Stark household to rise. “Its good to be back so soon.”

 

“Winterfell is yours as always Your Grace,” Ned said as he accepted a great bearhug from Robert who then immediately went on to hug Lady Catelyn.

 

“Take me to the crypts Ned, I wanna pay my respects,” Robert said seriously, immediately causing the Queen to affect her usual look of scorn that she wore whenever Jon was closer than five miles.

 

“We’ve been riding for a month my love,” she said, causing Jon to valiantly supress a snort at the word ‘love’. “Surely the dead can wait.”

 

Robert stared her down, his eyes expressionless while his mouth was in a thin line. “Ned,” he said as he started walking towards the crypt, prompting Ned to give an apologetic glance to the Queen before following the King.

 

“JON!” Jon barely had time to brace himself before he was impacted by Arya, Bran and Rickon, Sansa and Robb at least were courteous enough to walk over instead of jumping him.

 

“I’ve missed you little pups,” he laughed as he hugged and then ruffled their hair. “You’ve been behaving for you mother and father?” he asked sharply, mostly at Arya, though Bran also had a habit of worrying Ned and Catelyn Stark with his climbing.

 

“Arya snuck off to see an execution,” Bran babbled before Arya could try to lie.

 

“Traitor,” she snarled as she did her best to pummel Bran who immediately started to retaliate.

 

“That’s enough you two,” Robb grinned as he grabbed each of them by their shirts and hoisted them into the air.

 

“Another deserter?” Jon questioned to Robb who nodded grimly.

 

“A madman,” Robb explained. “He was scared out of his life, speaking of how his brothers had been killed by White Walkers.”

 

“Hmm,” Jon said thoughtfully as he stroked his chin. “I’ve come across my fair share of wildlings who spoke of the same.”

 

“You can’t mean to take them seriously,” Sansa said, “White Walkers are just a tale.”

 

Jon smiled while pulling her into a hug. “Don’t worry about it little sister,” he said while giving a meaningful look to Robb, who nodded back.

 

“I’m not your sister,” Sansa said sadly, “You’re our cousin.”

 

“Sansa,” Jon said as he tilted her head up so he could look into her eyes. “I held you when you were little, kissed your bruises and let you practice braiding my hair,” he smiled as she blushed slightly at the reminder of her ‘terrible’ fives, when her life’s ambition seemed to be nothing more than braiding everybody’s hair, and no doubt about it she was truly gifted. “You’ll always be my little sister, regardless if we’re cousins or not, same goes for the rest of you little pups too,” he added as he looked at Bran, Arya and Rickon.

 

“That you,” Sansa whispered as she threw her arms around him again.

 

“Winter seems to have whelped,” Robb said as he spotted the six direwolf pups who were all trying to join in on the hugs, either that or they were hungry or eager for bellyrubs which Jon had discovered were their great weakness.

 

“Aye, they’re getting big, already they’ve gotten off milk and started in on solids.”

 

Robb whistled as he scratched the ear of the biggest of the pups.

 

“I know,” Jon agreed. “Now, why don’t the four of you give Alys and the pups another tour of Winterfell? I need to speak to Robb for a moment.”

 

The four youngest Starks eagerly started dragging an amused Alys with them, Sansa greedily picking up Lyarra as they went along while Alys carried Torrhen. Sansa had always wanted another sister who she could dote on, rather than to have Arya who seemed to be Sansa’s complete opposite.

 

Jon followed Robb and Theon into the godswood, Robar, Sandor and the Smalljon also following. “Tell me more about the deserter,” Jon said, causing Theon to, rather predictably roll his eyes.

“Surely you don’t believe his tall tales Snow?” Theon mocked.

 

Jon held out a steadying hand at the Smalljon’s chest, the great man had already started to move forward. “I know little squid, that Brandon the Builder didn’t build a three hundred mile long, seven hundred feet tall wall out of ice and magic to block out wildlings,” Jon said calmly. “Furthermore, this is but the latest tale I’ve heard about people speaking of Walkers being seen beyond the Wall.”

 

“Aye,” the Smalljon said. “I don’t like the fookers, been killing them all me life, but mark me words. Something has the damn wildlings scared.”

 

“My brother Waymar mentioned in his latest letter that the wildlings were banding together, a former brother of the Nights Watch called Mance Raider appears to lead them.”

 

Robb gave a sad look at Robar. “The deserter mentioned Ser Waymar,” Robb said sadly. “He was leading the ranging north, he and another ranger were both killed by the Walkers if the deserter is to be believed.”

 

Robar seemed stricken. “Are- are you sure he said Waymar?”

 

“Yes,” Robb replied.

 

“I understand if you need some time alone Robar,” Jon said as he grasped the older man’s shoulder.

 

“Ye-yes,” Robar said. “I’ll have to send a raven to my father in the Vale, he’ll want to know.”

 

“Of course,” Robb said. “Have one of the serfs to guide you to Maester Luwin, hell help you pen and send the letter.”

 

“Does Lord Stark intend to do something?” Jon asked as Robar walked off.

 

Robb shook his head grimly. “Not to my knowledge no, he seemed to think the man to be mad. A mad man sees what he sees, he told Bran.”

 

“I’d be inclined to agree with him,” Jon said after a moment’s pause, “but as I said, this is merely the latest of many such tales, Stagsbane here has heard his share too from wildlings found on their lands.”

 

“We’ll talk to father later,” Robb promised him, before a grin spread across his face. “Now why don’t you tell me why the fuck you thought it to be a good idea to take on the Mountain.”

 

“Seemed to be the best way to shut both him and the Queen up,” Jon said with a shrug. “Didn’t work apparently, as the Queen has been bitching ever since, the golden shit she calls a son doesn’t seem to like me either, though part of that has to be from the fact that I stole his dog.”

 

Robb grinned while Theon seemed distinctly uncomfortable, he remembered the Mountain from when he had been one of the men who was present when Balon Greyjoy bent the knee. “Never thought I’d welcome a Clegane into Winterfell,” Robb said as he held out his hand to Sandor.

 

“My brother was a fucking cunt,” Sandor said with a grim smile as he shook Robb’s hand. “I’m glad the wolf here killed him, and I don’t have to hear the little Prince bitch at everything any longer either.”

 

“I’m sure,” Robb laughed before turning back to Jon. “Word of warning, mother and father are furious at you.”

 

Jon winced, regardless of the fact that he was a married man and a father, even a Lord of his own right, he still remembered the several occasions where Eddard Stark’s patience had run its course of Jon’s foolishness and he’d been thrown across his uncle’s knee and given a fair beating with the switch.

 

“Hopefully he’ll stop at only words this time,” Jon said hopefully.

 

“Well you killed the Mountain,” Robb said sceptically, “So miracles do apparently occur every once in a while.”

 

They were walking back towards the Great Keep by this point. “So, how’s married life treating you Jon?” Robb asked.

 

“Yes Snow,” Theon mocked. “How is it to only be able to fuck one woman?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Jon said with a grin. “I think my skills in the bedchamber is still way better than yours. . . if you have the balls for it you could always ask Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne or her cousins, they certainly weren’t complaining, though the Princess’ arse might disagree” he finished smugly, savouring the gobsmacked look on the Greyjoy’s face.

 

“Resorting to lies are we Snow,” he said, trying to regain the upper hand.

 

“I wish,” the Smalljon grumbled. “Bastards kept me up every night, you have any idea how cruel it is to hear them going at it half the night while I was lying all alone in bed with nothing to do but listen.”

 

“You could always have found yourself a whore,” Jon said defensively.

 

“Fuck no,” the Smalljon said angrily. “I’m not so desperate that I have to pay for it, besides I’d just have to show them my big cock and they’d all have left you in a heartbeat.”

 

“U-huh,” Jon said sceptically while Robb and Theon sniggered. “And pray tell why did you keep it to yourself? I hear a lot of tales about your allegedly large member, yet none seem to be able to confirm your tales.”

 

The Smalljon glared at Jon. “It’s called common decency wolf,” he grumbled. “I wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life without a woman warming your bed.”

 

“Either that or you’re still a maid too frightened to do anything about it,” Jon japed, only to laugh victoriously as the Smalljon promptly shut his mouth.

 

“Wait,” Robb said as he tried to catch his breath. “YOU are a maid? You who can barely avoid mentioning your cock every other sentence.”

 

“Shut up,” the Smalljon snarled. “I have. . . problems alright,” he said finally. “My mother swore she’d either cut of my cock or have me marry the wench if I ever fucked someone before I was wed.”

 

Jon sniggered as he clapped the Smalljon on his arm. “I think she knows your father too well.”

 

The Smalljon nodded angrily. “Evil bastard probably put her up to it.”

“From what I’ve learned about him I wouldn’t say you were off the mark about that,” Robb said drily.

 

They had now returned to the courtyard where activity was still bustling, though more and more people were disappearing in any given direction. Seeing that there was nothing for them to do they all decided to head into the keep itself, with the exception of Theon who shambled off towards the whorehouse in Winter Town with his head hung low.

 

“Robar,” Jon said slowly. “Where the fuck is Prince Oberyn?”

 

“Oh fuck. . .” Robar said as he too failed to spot the Dornish Prince.

 

“You brought Prince Oberyn here?” Robb asked stupefied. “Have you lost your wits?”

 

“Couldn’t well refuse him could I?” Jon grumbled. “Besides, he likes me, and he’s a swell guy once you get to know him, even if he does have his. . .problems.”

 

The Smalljon snorted. “What the wolf here means is that Oberyn seems disinclined to leave before he gets to sample his skills in the bedroom personally.”

 

“Don’t exaggerate,” Jon told the big Umber while trying his best to ignore the way Robb and the others were sniggering at his expense.

 

“Well, so far he’s sent two of his daughters and his niece your way to distract you,” the Smalljon countered, causing Robb to splutter.

 

 

“You mean that was true?” he asked disbelievingly.

 

“Yes,” Jon said with a small hint of pride.

 

Robb looked at him with the same disbelieving look for a few moments before breaking out in laughter. “Father is going to _murder_ you one of these days Jon. First the Mountain and all that chaos, and now bedding the Princess of Dorne, you do realize what will happen if Princess Arianne returns south with a little wolf in her belly don’t you?”

 

“Bah,” Jon waved away his concerns. “They took moon tea. . . I think. . . I’m fucking dead aren’t I?”

 

“There’s always the wall,” Robar helpfully added as he tried to stop laughing.

 

It felt good Jon had to admit, to be back in Winterfell and japing with Robb. And while he certainly didn’t appreciate being the butt of the joke, he was certainly used to it by now, as most of the best laughs he and Robb had shared had been due to whatever tomfoolery Jon had been caught doing, and due to Jon’s admittedly wild nature, Eddard Stark had developed a surprisingly keen nose for sniffing out whatever Jon had done, to both Jon and Arya’s despair.

“I fucking hate you guys,” Jon grumbled good naturedly as he gave Robb a shove through the doors.

 

The great hall was as familiar as always, though far busier than it usually was, servants running to and fro, but it became apparent that the preparations for the evening’s feast were in their last stages, Lady Catelyn no doubt having started the preparations weeks in advance.

 

“JON!” the moment Arya and Sansa spotted him again their differences and most likely argument was immediately pushed aside in favour of jumping him. “The pups are so cute,” Sansa gushed while Arya herself was far more interested in just trying to squeeze him to death.

 

“You think so?” he asked them, taking notice of the fact that two of the pups were even now following them around as they had done the moment they were first introduced, another one was following Robb in the same fashion.

 

“Yes,” Arya exclaimed. “Can we keep them? Please?” she begged as she laid into him with her best pleading look.

 

“Perhaps,” Jon said teasingly. “Were it up to me you could, but you’ll have to convince your parents, or even Winter for that matter,” Jon added as he gestured to the large direwolf that had been his ever faithful companion since he first found her.

 

“DONE!” Both girls shouted simultaneously, proving that although they may be as different as night and day in both looks and spirit they were still sisters.

 

“I almost pity uncle having to mediate between the two of them,” Jon said fondly as he watched the pair run off, in completely different directions to hunt down their mother or father. “What?” Jon asked as Robb suddenly broke out into loud guffaws.

 

“Don’t tell Arya, but father means for you and Alys to foster her for a few years.”

 

Jon blinked, surely his uncle couldn’t be that foolish. “Has he taken leave of his sense?” he asked weakly. “Me fostering Arya, I’m not cut out for that and you know it.”

 

Robb shrugged his shoulders vaguely. “He seems to think that you and Alys may be able to, we all know that besides mother and father you are the only one Arya has ever listened to, for the most part at least,” he grinned. “And if Alys can keep you from. . . too much trouble then she should be able to deal with Arya.”

 

“I’ll admit that I have reservations about this,” Jon said slowly. “But it’ll be good to have her around for a bit.”

 

“It is good that you think so Jon,” said a voice that sent shivers up Jon’s spine. “But don’t think for a moment this will let you off the hook, you have a _lot_ to answer for.”

 

Jon turned and as he feared, there stood his uncle Ned Stark, and he did _not_ look pleased. “Uncle,” Jon said, “I am happy to see you again.”

 

Robert sniggered at Jon’s obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Take my word for it boy, better to accept your licks now than try to wrangle out of them,” Robert said as he ruffled Jon’s hair.

 

So it was a somewhat contrite Jon who followed his father in all but blood up to Ned Stark’s solar for a long overdue discussion. Barely had the door been closed before Jon felt Ned Stark’s hand smack the side of his face as hard as he could before getting pulled into a hug. “What on earth were you thinking? Taking on the Mountain. I thought you dead when I read the first lines telling of how you fought the Mountain,” Ned said as he held Jon close.

 

“I-I’m sorry father,” Jon mumbled, somewhat shocked at how emotional Ned was. “I didn’t think.”

 

Ned chuckled morosely. “You never do Jon,” he said exasperatedly, “I just fear that one day that impulsiveness is going to be the end of you.”

 

Jon smiled weakly as his uncle finally let him go. “I don’t mean to be so impulsive, it just sort of happens.”

 

“It always does,” Ned said. “The wolf’s blood is strong in you Jon,” he said as he gave Jon a reassuring grip on the shoulder. “It has granted you prodigious strength, but you **must** exercise caution. That same blood led my brother and sister both to their deaths.”

 

Jon frowned slightly, hoping for an explanation.

 

“Brandon and Lya, they were both like you.” Ned said as he sat down in his chair, a distant look on his face. “Gods they were both so wild and free, life to them was all a big jape,” he chuckled longingly. “You could always count on Bran and Lya to brighten up your day if you felt down. . .you remind me so much of them.”

 

“I. . .” Jon struggled to find the correct words. He had never seen his uncle quite like this before, though there had been moments where he had seen his uncle angry or upset.

 

“They would have been proud of you Jon, both of them, but they wouldn’t want you to make their mistakes, so please, heed my words just this once will you? Try to be more careful. You are not immortal, for all your strength and skill at arms you are still a man, and like any other man you can die.”

 

“I’ll try to be more careful father,” Jon whispered.

 

“It pleases me that you still call me that,” Ned said with a smile, “I feared somewhat that you’d stop see me as your father when I told you.”

 

This time it was Jon who grabbed him in a hug. “You’ll always be my father,” he said. “You raised me, gave me a home, and tolerated my many _many_ misadventures,” Ned let out a slight chuckle at that as he stroked Jon’s back. “I know I haven’t always been the best son, or showed it all that often, but I am proud to call you father.”

 

“Oh Jon,” Ned said as he gripped Jon tighter. “Any man would be proud to call you his son, just. . . try to reign in your excesses some,” he finished with a grin.

 

Jon felt a rush of warmth flow through him, irrational as it was, he had always clamoured for Ned Stark’s approval, and any time he received it he felt his heart swell in pride. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

Ned offered Jon a cup of ale and gestured for him to sit. “Now, tell me all about this incident with the Prince and why you saw fit to bar him from your home,” he said seriously as he stared at Jon. “Robert mentioned the incident, but also spoke of his desire for Sansa to marry the Prince one day.”

 

Jon sighed as he gladly accepted the cup. “It’s a bit of a long story, and we should probably call in Sandor for this, he knows more of the Prince than I do. . .”

* * *

After a _very_ long talk, which had left Ned Stark with a very poor image of the Prince the feast eventually started. Jon and Alys both were sitting at the high table, listening to one bard after another while tasting the many dishes offered. “I pity the Queen,” Alys said softly as she watched King Robert fondle a serving wench to the degree that he was almost fucking her at the table.

 

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “I may not like her, but no woman deserves being dishonoured so by her husband.”

 

“What is wrong?” Alys asked as she saw Jon who still seemed to be distracted.

 

“Hmm?” Jon asked as he was once again brought out of his thoughts.

 

“You’ve been distracted or worried ever since your talk with Robb,” she said softly as she stroked little circles on his hand.

 

“Disturbing rumours,” he said finally. “Talks of wildlings and worse up beyond the Wall.”

 

“Why don’t you ask your uncle Benjen?” Alys asked as she pointed out his uncle who, true enough had just appeared and was sharing a hug with Ned.

 

“I’ll be back,” Jon murmured as he softly kissed Alys.

 

“Uncle Benjen,” Jon said as he gave his uncle a hug.

 

“Goodness Jon,” Benjen exclaimed as he held Jon at arms length. “Still as hale and hearty as ever.”

 

Jon grinned. “You know me uncle.”

 

Benjen returned the grin. “Unfortunately I do, you’ve no idea what you’ve done do you?”

 

Jon blinked, surely he couldn’t have done something to affect the wall itself.

 

“You’ve forced me to share space with a _happy_ Alliser Thorne,” he explained. “Every former Targaryen loyalist, even Maester Aemon have been endlessly happy and somewhat celebratory ever since you blood eagled Clegane. I’ve had to endure hugs damn you.”

 

Jon sniggered. “What, people not afraid of their First Ranger any longer?” he quipped.

 

“Ned should’ve drowned you at birth,” Benjen said fondly as he ruffled Jon’s hair.

 

“But uncle,” Robb cut in. “If he’d done so, father wouldn’t have a few dignified grey hairs.”

 

“Few my frostbitten arse,” Benjen laughed. “My older brother is more grey than brown now.”

 

It was true, Ned stark’s hair had a healthy amount of grey in it, though it didn’t make him look old at all, dignified yes, but never old. In fact the only times Jon could ever recall Ned Stark look old was when the subject of his dead brother or sister brought or. . .or on the few occasions where Jon had _really_ toed the line.

 

“I’ll have you know little brother,” Ned growled. “That I’m still young and strong enough to put you over my knee like father used to.”

 

All four Starks laughed at that, it felt good to just laugh together. The occasions to do so had been far too rare, with Benjen at the Wall, and Jon off to somewhere causing mischief no doubt. “I meant to ask you uncle,” Jon said as their laughter ended. “The deserter that Father executed the other day.”

 

Benjen grimaced slightly. “He was a good lad, and a true ranger.”

 

“He was rambling about White Walkers,” Ned said.

 

“I don’t know what he saw,” Benjen said. “I’ve never seen anything hinting of Walkers but. . .”

 

“But what?” Robb asked.

 

“There are stories. More and more wildlings are caught, and they’re not going south to raid.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ned asked.

 

“. . .They’re fleeing,” Jon said flatly, causing Benjen to nod. “I’ve heard the tales from a few of the wildlings I’ve fought before. Walkers are returning, and a former brother, Mance Rayder is gathering the clans.”

 

“Aye Jon has the truth of it,” Benjen agreed. “The wildlings we’ve come across have for the most part been terrified, and its also true that the wildlings are banding together. The Haunted Forest is living up to its name now. . .camp after camp is gone Ned, I just returned from a two month long ranging, not a single wildling to be found, and still more and more ranging parties never return, _something_ is happening up beyond the Wall.”

 

Ned was looking grimmer than Jon had ever seen him. “How well prepared is the watch?”

 

Benjen shared his brother’s look. “Worse than ever almost, even with the Ironborn that have been sent up at a steady pace thanks to Jon and Lord Manderly at Sea Dragon Point we’re still less than fifteen-hundred men, and that includes, stewards and builders. We’ve no enough men to properly work the gift, so supplies are low as well.”

 

“What of this Mance Rayder?” Ned asked.

 

“He used to be a brother at the Shadow Tower,” Benjen said. “I never met the man.”

 

“We did,” Robb exclaimed suddenly. “Don’t you remember father? ‘twas a few years ago when the former Lord Commander Qorgyle visited Winterfell.”

 

“Aye,” Ned said as he remembered. “He was a loyal man of the Watch then.”

 

 

“He deserted a few years ago,” Benjen said. “Never heard the full tale, though from how I understand it he was wounded by a shadowcat and healed by a wildling woman who mended his cloak, that’s all I know I’m afraid.”

 

Jon at this point also remembered the man. Middle height, broad shoulders and a face lined by laugh lines and brown hair that was turning slightly to grey. Just at that moment there was a commotion as Arya deftly launched a piece of stew that landed perfectly on Sansa’s cheek.

 

“It’ll be good when she’s off our hands,” Robb quipped as he moved to pick up Arya and escort her to bed.

 

“You’ll miss her soon enough,” Jon shot back at Robb’s retreating back.

 

“We’ll have to speak more of this tomorrow,” Ned said tiredly as he watched Robert who had no managed to free the teats of the serving wench he was fondling earlier.

 

“I’m going out for some air,” Jon told Benjen. “I’ve been stuck in here for too long.”

 

Benjen laughed. “You like Brandon and Lya,” he japed. “They could never sit still either, I’ll see you on the morrow nephew,” he said as he gave Jon a last hug before hurrying off to help out Ned.

 

Once Jon had entered the Godswood he spotted Robar who was kneeling before the Weirwood, saying a prayer for his brother no doubt. With Robar was one of the bards who had performed earlier, a _very_ familiar bard. His hair may be far more grey now, and his clothes finer than the black Jon had seen him in previously, but there was no mistaking the man. “Tell me,” Jon said as he stepped beside the bard and suddenly slammed him against the tree with his knife held at the man’s throat. “What brings you south of the Wall Mance Rayder, or do you prefer King-Beyond-The-Wall?”

 

**AN:/**

 

**Chapter 10 is also FINALLY updated. And since I'm in a 'groove' atm I hope to get enough for yet another update written within a few days.  
**

**CHeers**

**Daemon Belaerys**


	10. We're going on an adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KUDOS and a thousand thanks to Avery_Fontaine who wrote a pretty nice 'cold open' for me based n the notes/suggestions I gave him. Barely had to edit anything in post after he got it back to me.
> 
> Thanks must also go out to ScholaroftheARchive and KadenIV for their helpful tips and feedback during our discussions. And lastly to all of you dear readers who have bore with me during my procrastination, THANK YOU, YOU GUYS AND GIRLS ROCK!

_ ****Aaaaaand here we are. Apologies for how long this took, as well as for the shorter than usual length (not even 7k words) Fortunately more is coming soon if everything goes to plan.** ** _

  


**I'd put in a disclaimer too, but my friends Avery_Fontaine and KadenIV on AO3 killed it when I took too long with writing this update, blame them, not me.**

 

**PS: Lemon warning for those weak of heart/easily triggered...get over it xD**

* * *

  


**The Skagg**

Bilrogg Magnar ascended the nearest hill, his leather satchel on his back. He was hunting. On the island of Skagos, men had to hunt for their own food, lest they be weak and be eaten by another. He knew he shouldn't have been alone, but he was a son of House Magnar, one of the few noble houses of the island. His brother warned him not to stray and stay near the caves, lest the great beast take him, but it had not been seen in over a moon, and was likely hibernating near the cliffs. Besides, his family had to be stronger and braver than all others to keep their name on such a harsh land. He needed to hunt.

The other houses on the mainland called them backwards, half-men, wildlings, but Bilrogg knew they were only jealous. The Starks claimed them vassals but no Lord of the island would ever pay taxes, give his daughter in marriage or attend any call to war. A Skagosi chose his own fate. While many others died without the protection of a great master such as the Starks, House Magnar did better without them.

Every raider that came near Skagos, whether it be the ironmen, pirates or slavers, all died at their rocky shores, or their men were cut by their obsidian blades and their women taken as prizes. If the great beast didn't take them first.

They were the truest of the First Men, except for the so-called Free Folk. The Children of the Forest gave them all they needed to survive the harsh island.  
Traders from the Summer Islands, those mudd-skinned silk-wearers, would soon arrive, eager for their goods. It only took time for Bilrogg to hunt enough of the beasts, and he was determined, despite the danger.

The mountainous land at last gave way to a small patch of forest. Of course, Bilrogg knew, none but a Skagosi could traverse these lands. They and the unicorns.

And at last the majestic beast in question strolled across the forest, unaware of Bilrogg's presence. Its shaggy grey mane and unpolished horn showed that it was a free beast, just as his people were. Bilrogg took his stick from his satchel and attached a piece of string, tightening it and making a bow. He also removed his obsidian arrow. The beast would be dead any moment, and its horn would be added to the others. Bilrogg almost salivated at the thought of all the fruit the mudd-skinned men would bring. His father might even commission a raid on Hardhome so they could steal and enjoy some of their pretty, wild women.

As he drew his arrow, the unicorn stopped and turned. But where the sun had shone upon Bilrogg's back and lit up the day, everything had been turned to shadow, and the unicorn facing him could see clearly why and then it ran. Bilrogg turned and saw an enormous black figure in the sky, and with it came a dark sky.

' _By the Gods! I've gone too far.'_

The great black beast, wings like a bat and horns the length of young trees, larger than the ships of the Manderlys or even some of the castles of the mainlanders, screeched and let out a blast of red and white fire.

Immediately, the heir of House Magnar ran. He had to get to the caves, he had to hide himself, and hope it didn't see him.

Bilrogg had only ever seen the beast few times in his life and only from afar; his father told him it arrived after the mainlanders had their Dance, and it settled on the cliff of Skagos ever since. The Skagosi though, were too tough to leave the island or call for help; they would take it on their own way. After centuries of living with the looming darkness of the great beast in the sky, Bilrogg and his people all knew what to do: run and hide.

He dropped his bow, and ran toward the nearest cave. Suddenly a stampede of unicorns came out of the forest and ran behind him, away from the dragon. They passed him and Bilrogg soon found a cave. He ran inside and went as far into the cave as possible. Like his father told him, hiding by itself was useless. The dragon would burn the whole bloody cave, and he needed to be as far away from that godsforsaken flame as possible.

At last he found his hiding spot, and he heard the great beast burn and devour everything near him. Every unicorn near him would be devoured or burnt into the rocky ground. Then he felt a thud on the ground, and it pushed him off the ground. When the great beast landed, it was more damaging than an earthquake. Bilrogg remained. He waited and waited, and yet felt no burning on the walls. He had escaped.

After what seemed like long enough, Bilrogg left the cave. He was confident about one thing. Wherever the dragon went, it would always leave soon. Bilrogg left the cave and smelt the ashes around him. Upon exiting, all he saw was black stone and melted rock.

_'Dragonglass. Where it burn our lands it always leave melted dragonglass.'_

Bilrogg stood in wonder, wonder at the great sight, everything was burnt or burning and he wondered if he could even walk home. Then he felt a gust atop him, and he looked up.

All he saw were teeth, teeth the size of him. The dragon had him, and his heart fell.  
Suddenly a roaring sound of a horn, guttural and dark, like the seven hells of the mainlanders had all been unleashed at once, came across the land. It was so loud it even shook Bilrogg from his trance, and the dragon stilled in curiosity and then turned its head and flew up in the air. The shadow of the grand dragon covered him, and the beast screeched again, so loud it made Bilrogg fall to the ground in pain. He saw the dragon breathe fire again, its dreadful mix of red and white, and it flew away. Bilrogg stood and saw the dragon fly, all the way towards the mainland.

_'What the fuck is going on?!'_

As Bilrogg tried to walk home, he stumbled and felt blood trickle down his left ear. He called out to himself, trying to remind himself he survived the dragon, how he would brag to his brother, and warn the mainlanders. But he could only hear from his right ear. In the other he was deaf.  
The gods, still, had blessed him. They had blessed all the Skagosi by giving them their lives. Now it would be up to the gods again if the mainlanders were to survive, once Cannibal descended from the sky.

* * *

**Several months previously. Winterfell:**

"Jon will you calm down?" Alys finally snapped after watching Jon pace for over an hour. Mere moments after uncle/father Ned, his uncle Benjen and the King had arrived in the godswood, Mance had been swept off towards the dungeons or something, and Jon, Robb and everyone else had been sent packing.

Jon stopped his pacing and looked at Alys who had a look of irritation on her face. "Sorry Alys," he mumbled, "I just can't sit here and wait."

"You said both of your uncles are talking with this… Mance character yes?"

"Aye," he nodded.

"Then perhaps you're fretting needlessly," she said, trying to calm him down. "You told me a tale or two from how things are, reputedly up beyond the Wall, and no doubt your Uncle Benjen knows even more."

"Perhaps if I get the Smalljon," Jon mused as he absently stroked his chin, completely forgetting about Alys again.

"Oh – For fuck's sake!" she swore as she jumped to her feet – and pushed Jon into his chair. "You, are impossible sometimes," she said, as she tried to avoid smiling. "Adorable, but impossible all the same."

**LEMON WARNING!**

Jon smirked slightly as he let his eyes roam over her from top to bottom. Unlike how she wore her hair in a long thick braid during the day her long inky tresses were fully free now, hanging down her back and front, long enough that the tips almost reached her narrow waist. "Come here," he said huskily as he put his hands on her sides, slowly pushing her nightgown upwards to reveal her smooth creamy thighs. Alys appeared to be of a like mind as she swiftly drew the nightgown over her head and threw it away.

Jon licked his lips as he felt his pulse quicken. "Learnt a thing or two from our Dornish guests did we?" he asked as he pointed out the think black stripe of hair above her cunt.

Grinning wickedly she straddled his waist, causing him to groan harshly as he felt her grind her naked sex atop his stiffening cock that was as of yet trapped in his trousers. "You – seemed to like it – if I remember correctly," she panted as she ground back and forth with increased urgency.

Not content to just sit and watch while she rubbed herself off on him, Jon swiftly released his cock from the confines of his trousers and impaled his wife on its length. "Fuck," they both gasped as his cock was enveloped by Alys' heat. "Did – you – ever – take -someone – in – your – room – like – this?" Alys asked, each word preceded with a whimper of ecstasy ash she rode his cock slowly.

" _Never_ ," Jon said breathlessly as Alys quickened her pace. "I was – careful not to get – caught," his grip on her thighs grew tighter and he could feel his end nearing. "Gods I love this," Jon whimpered before taking her nipple in his mouth, latching on like a babe dying of thirst, while his right hand went between their bodies to caress the sweet little nub at the top of her flower. He was so aroused that the sudden clenching of Alys' walls took him by complete surprise. " **FUCK**!" ye yelled as he threw his head back.

"You poor thing," Alys whispered sultrily in his ear as she rode his still hard length slowly, her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy. "You needed that didn't you?"

He did, no doubts about it, but to admit it on the other hand. "Wench," he mumbled humorously as he guided her lips down to his. "We both needed this I think," he mumbled in between kisses.

Even though he felt more like going to sleep he did his husbandly duty, aided with his fingers to bring Alys to her own climax, and before he knew it he was awoken by a mortified "Oh Gods, I'm so sorry."

**LEMON END!**

Snapping his eyes open towards the door, Jon noted both Arya and Sansa staring at him and Alys' nude bodied, both of them apparently fell asleep in the chair the night before. Sansa the poor thing was so mortified, her face almost as red as her long hair, while Arya had a look on her face that was a combination of fascination, and disgust. "Get out of here," Jon barked at them, "And close the door."

Never before had he seen either of his sisters move so swiftly, as barely had the words left his mouth before the door slammed shut and the pitter-patter of swiftly moving feet on stone accompanied by horrified giggles slowly disappeared.

"Tell me that did not just happen," Alys bemoaned as she dug herself deeper into Jon's chest, curling up in a ball, "cold," she muttered.

Sighing Jon lifted her up and laid her softly down on the bed before drawing the thick furs over her. "Sleep," he whispered as he place a kiss on her brow, and then swiftly dressed and headed out, intent on finding his uncles.

"Do I want to know why Sansa, Jeyne, their other friends _and_ Arya are all sitting in a little circle and giggling?" Robb asked Jon the moment they ran into each other outside the hall.

"Probably not," Jon admitted with a shrug. "Though most like, Lady Stark will have to give them a talk that she and father have managed to hold off on so far."

"Ah..." Robb seemed unsure what to say. "You do know that mother will blame you more likely than not yes?" Robb asked with a grin.

"I'll live," Jon said drily. "Any word from father yet?"

"Actually yes," Robb admitted, "I was just about to fetch you, the Smalljon is already down there."

"Then lets go," Jon said as he quickened his pace.

While his visits to the dungeons had not been too many he still knew the way just as well as Robb. When they arrived the torches were already burning, and two of the Kingsguard stood guard outside one of the larger cells, as did Rodryn and Len 'lefty', two of the better guards in Winterfell. Stepping through the door, Jon was greeted with the sight of Ned and Benjen Stark, Rodrik Cassel, Smalljon Umber, King Robert, and Sers Jaime and Barristan, and lastly Mance Rayder.

It had been a long night apparently. Mance's face was more purple than not, a full three of his fingers broken, and no doubt he had a multitude of bruises elsewhere as well. At least he was no longer hung from the rafters by chains to his wrists, though he could see evidence in the form of blood and bruising that he had no doubt been subject to it earlier. The empty bucket, as well as dripping clothes showed that he must have been subject to many forms of 'questioning' and going by the angry scowls on his 'father's face, as well as that of Ser Barristan, it had no doubt been at the King's command.

"JON!" Robert clapped his hands together before slapping Jon on the back. "Good work catching this one eh?"

"Has he said anything?" Jon pressed.

Any smiles in the room died. "He keeps clinging to the same foolish tale, white walkers, wights, might as well throw in snarks and grumpkins while you're at it deserter," Robert spat.

"Robert," Ned said cautiously. "No man can withstand all that unless he was telling the truth, or what he believes to be the truth at least," Ned shrugged. "A mad man sees what he sees."

"Then the wilds beyond the Wall is overrunning with mad men these days," the Smalljon said angrily. "I don't like it anymore than any of you do, hells, I never thought I'd be siding with a fooken wildling… but what if he's right?"

Ned Stark was still unconvinced going by the look on his face.

"Ned," Benjen said. "I've never seen any of the things Mance, or any of the other captured wildlings say they've seen, but you must admit, it is getting disturbing. Too many similar stories, village after village abandoned, completely empty sake for broken tents and pools of blood."

"And what would you have me do about it?" Robert barked.

"We must go north in force," Benjen said. "There are too few rangers left in the Night's Watch so we'd need men from the North as well," he held up a hand to stop Robert for interjecting. "We go north in force, and take this one with us. He can lead us to his camp, from there we can get the wildlings to help guide us through the lands beyond the Wall."

"If you think I will help any of you…" Mance started before spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"You will if you wish for your people to survive," Jon said coldly. "I've killed my ,fair share of wildlings, and all of them were far more afraid of what stirs beyond the Wall than of me."

"You'd let us south?" Mance asked disbelievingly. "You The Bloody Wolf? Oh yes even in the True North your name and reputation is know," Mance said after seeing Jon react to the sudden dropping of his little 'nickname'.

"You may not recall it Mance Rayder," Ned said. "But it was my ancestor Brandon Stark who built the Wall, he fought during the last years of the Long Night. If the walkers truly are returning I will offer your people what Brandon offered, come south, or stay north and die."

Mance appeared to weigh his options for some time before nodding surly. "You leave me with little better choice, I'll accept."

Ned Stark nods his head. "I'll see to it that you are given better quarters, under _guard_. Maester Luwin will take a look at those injuries before food is brought to you understood."

"Perhaps a change of clothes as well," Jon notes with distaste, his fine nose easily picking up the reek from Mance's clothes, whoever put Mance to the questioning must have been good enough to make Mance lose control of both his bladder and bowels.

"Thank you lad," Mance rasps, his voice still hoarse from no doubt hours of screaming.

"Ned," Robert cuts in. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I am the Warden of the North, and the Stark in Winterfell," Ned sighs tiredly. "As such it is I who must do this Robert…" he pauses. "If you still insist on me being Hand we can discuss that when I return from beyond the Wall."

Robert looks close to shouting again, before he restrains himself at the last minute. "This. Isn't. Over," he hisses before leaving in a dark mood, the Kingsguard following him.

"I'm coming with you," Jon bursts out as soon as Robert is out of hearing.

"Jon…" Ned whines. "Not now, we'll discuss this later."

It took a few hours but eventually Robb and Jon managed to gather a small cadre of their closest, friends, or trusted retainers and 'allies' inside the armory. Jon, Robb, The Smalljon, Prince Oberyn, Robar and Gendry, Theon and the Hound. The explanation of it all raises more than a few disbelieving eyebrows or sneers (Theon) but as a whole they all keep their silence while Robb tells the tale.

"So you what? Intend to go north to find snarks and grumpkins?" Prince Oberyn, the eldest among them japes.

"Something has them fookers scared," the Smalljon admits. "I for one want to lay my eyes on whatever can scare wildlings better than Bloody Jon here," he laughs as he gives Jon's shoulder a friendly punch.

"Aye," Jon admits. "I too want to see this for my own eyes."

Oberyn stays silent for a moment before shrugging. "I always intended to see the Wall anyhow, now I'll be famous as the first Prince of Dorne to chase down monsters of myth and legends, I suppose I am in."

Jon smirks slightly. "The fact that you can also be the first Dornish Prince to fuck a wildling has nothing to do with this I suppose?" he asks drily, shaking his head as the elder Prince just grins wickedly while waggling his eyebrows.

"I'm coming too," Robar says. "One of them fuckers killed Waymar, besides," he shoots the Hound a challenging grin. "I cannot in good conscience let the dog here go out to kill monsters while I sit home and knit now can I?"

"Fuck you, Royce," Sandor Clegane growls. "I'll come," he says with his gruff voice. "I swore an oath, but you better make sure we bring chicken."

Robb snorts briefly, before schooling his face when the Hound turns his glare upon him.

"So… why am I here?" Theon asks.

Jon sighs before running a hand through his hair. "I don't like you Greyjoy, that isn't a secret," Jon starts, ignoring how Robb mumbles 'understatement of the century'. "BUT, you are the best damn archer I've ever laid eyes on, so what do you say? You wanna continue to stay here in Winterfell and squander your weekly stipend on salty whores? Or do you wanna do something that no Greyjoy has ever done before? Just imagine it Greyjoy, if there really are white walkers you'll be the first Ironborn in history to kill one."

Theon looks thoughtful as he imagines the fame he'll receive on Pyke if he was to return with the head of a white walker. "Fine," he grumbles. "I'll come, and when I save all your arses from snarks and grumpkins I expect a damn good grovelling apology from you _bastard_."

Jon rolls his eyes, Theon Greyjoy, for all that he does have his moments where he isn't too bad will always be a cunt. "Then we are in agreement," turning his eyes onto Robb, Jon grins. "I'll let you take this to Lord Stark, you'll have better luck than I do."

It's only a few hours later that things take a turn for the worse. The King and Lord Stark had gone out for a hunt to discuss things in private, as well as cool their heads. While gone, Bran had fallen from a tower and broken his spine, he was yet to wake up. Ironically enough the King had tried to use this as an excuse for Lord Stark to not go through with his 'northern foolishness' as he called it, but if anything it had just made Ned more resolute in finding any excuse not to go south to King's Landing.

The King and Lord Stark argued for days. First about Ned going North, and then for not staying in Winterfell when his son was hurt. And then the King had tried to establish a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa, only for Ned to shut it down instantly, citing both Jon and Sandor Clegane's stories of the Prince. When Robert didn't refute them Ned just asked if Robert would have married Myrcella to someone like Joffrey.

The King was melancholy after that, retreating to his cups more often than not, with only Jon and the few times he showed himself – Gendry cheering him up by plying Robert for warstories. All they could do was wait, both for Bran to wake up, and for men to arrive to Winterfell.

All in all, Ned would take with him five hundred men from Winterfell, including Jon, Robar, Sandor Clegane, Gendry, Prince Oberyn, Theon and the Smalljon after Robb had showed his skills for diplomacy by finally getting his father to agree. Another two hundred men from Castle Cerwyn under Ser Kyle Condon. Ser Jory had already set out towards the Mountain Clans with the hope of gathering a few hundred willing men to join them once they reached Castle Black, while the Smalljon guaranteed that his father would no doubt insist on joining too, as well as supply a good portion of soldiers.

Already men were gathering outside of Winterfell, most of them staying in the Winter Town during the nights, while preparing for the trek up north. Carts to hold food or drink were gathered up, every one carefully inspected by the carpenters of Winterfell to ensure that they were all in pristine order. Horses were also gathered up, to the point where over six hundred of their current number had a horse to ride on. Lywin had supplied them with a few ravens, as well as an acolyte of sorts that he had taken under his wing, hoping to send the young man to the Citadel once he had learnt his letters properly. While the lad still struggled to read or write, he knew how to work the ravens, and lastly had been Robert. Upon learning that Gendry was going North he had (reluctantly) parted with one of his Kingsguard.

While Meryn Thrant was no Knight of great renown, he was still a good enough fighter with a sword, but most importantly he had the instincts of a killer which would no doubt be needed, the fact that sending Meryn along with the left Cersei in a rage was just the cherry n top of the cake, or so Jon thought, and probably Robert as well if the King's smug grins were anything to go by. Jon could have gone without seeing the King blubber with great heaving sobs and tears as he handed over his warhammer to Gendry and told him to 'use it well boy, and crack a few skulls for me,' that Gendry was strong enough to use the monstrosity was certainly a point in his favour, and after being permitted a few practice swings with the deadly weapon that had killed that raping cunt Rhaegar, Jon was almost tempted to have Gendry make him another one just like it, still, he preferred Red Rain over a warhammer in any case, and if for some reason he chose not to wield the lethal greatsword, he still had his axe and trusted broadsword to deal out death and judgement.

The hardest part had been leaving Alys… again. She had **not** been pleased at Jon's wish to 'go north and play the fucking hero,' as she said it. They had quarrelled several times since Jon had informed her of his intent to go north, up to the point that she had finally refused him both from their bed, as well as even to speak with him. It certainly didn't help that the direwolves 'betrayed' him by choosing her (and their children) all of them following her when she announced her intent to visit her parents and brother in the Karhold. They all left him the day before the King left for the south, leaving Jon standing alone on the battlements with a forlorn look on his face as his wife, and his children all left him behind. At least Jon had enough of a mind to send a hundred of his own men with her, no way was he letting her cross Bolton lands without an escort, even if Domeric was a better man by far than his father or brother.

"Chin up lad," the Smalljon said as he stepped up beside Jon. "She's a feisty one that wife of yours, a true northern Lady."

"Aye she is," Jon said sadly.

The Smalljon let out a small grumble. "Sometimes I forget that you're still young, barely a man by most accounts," he said, remarking on the fact that for all of Jon's ferocity he had still to see his one and eight nameday. "She'll be back to driving you crazy soon enough lad," he told Jon as he threw an arm over his shoulder. "Women, can't live with them and can't live without 'em as me old man always says, sometimes they just need a few days for themselves."

Jon gave a minute shrug before leaning down to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The red eyed and white furred albino runt of Winter's litter was the only one who hadn't obediently followed Alys when she decided to leave, but then again Ghost had always been the on who was closest to Jon, even closer than Winter who shuffled her loyalty and affection between Jon and Alys, no doubt recognizing a fellow 'bitch' in Alys who had children of her own after all.

"Shame about the big one," the Smalljon mentioned. "We could have used her teeth no doubt when we go north."

"Ghost's teeth are more than deadly enough, but feel free to test them yourself," Jon says with a grin as Ghost bares his teeth at the Smalljon, already Ghost is at the size of the bigger hounds in Winterfell, and only liable to grow more. "Beside his fur should help him blend in."

"Warg right?" Smalljon questioned, having overheard a conversation a few days past between Jon and Mance who had been permitted to visit the godswood for some fresh air under guard.

"Aye," Jon admits, before holding out his arm just in time for his faithful crow 'Beak' to land on it. The crow accepted a few strokes over its feathers before shuffling awkwardly up Jon's arm before taking up its usual roost on his shoulder, and immediately started to try and groom Jon's hair with its beak. "Stop that," Jon grumbled as he gave Beak a slight poke with his finger, thankfully the Crow obeyed him. "Between Ghost and Beak here I'll do my best to keep an eye out for any potential ambush."

"I just wish me damn father had taught me how to warg," the Smalljon grumbled surly.

"Oh aye," the Smalljon said. "First Umber in over a century I'm told, didn't teach any of us though."

Jon raised an inquisitive eyebrow to the big man.

The Smalljon looked around shiftily, as if to reassure himself that his big father wasn't around to hear it. "He took it as a bit of an insult apparently," the Smalljon tells gleefully in a low voice. "We don't know for sure if it is true or not, but considering he's had that fookin squirrel since he was a wee lad of five I'm tempted to believe me uncle Mors when he tells me that me old man wargs into a squirrel at times, he certainly fits the notion of a squirrel, fucks anything he can, and hoards battleaxes instead of nuts but the similarity is there."

Jon was shaking from trying to hold in his laughter. Just the thought of the only man in the Seven Kingdoms to nearly rival the Mountain in height and strength warging into a squirrel of all things was so ludicrous that there wasn't much one could do, beside laugh that is.

"You tell me father about this and I'll kill you first."

"That's-that's quite alright," Jon gasped as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

They stood in silence for a few more moments, both of them lost in thought, Jon's thoughts dwelling on Alys, and Arya who had left with her, just how Alys had managed to get Arya over to 'her side' he'd probably never find out, but at least Arya was with Alys, instead of heading south with the King as Robert had wanted, pleading Lord Stark to betroth Arya to Tommen if Sansa and Joffrey was out of the question.

In some ways Jon pitied Robert. Oh he despised his eldest son, wife and goodbrother, nor did he have any respect for how Robert dealt with Tywin Lannister after the Sack of King's Landing, but to be stuck with a wife who hated him, and to have two sons, one a cruel sadistic bastard and another who was a timid weakling was more than any man should be expected to take. At the very least Princess Myrcella was good. Kind, smart, if a bit demure from what little Jon knew of her, and if her mother was anything to go by Myrcella would break quite a few hearts when she grew older.

"You ready for tomorrow?" the Smalljon asked, remarking on the fact that they would be leaving for the Wall the very next day.

"Aye, I'd have left already were it up to me."

The Smalljon laughed. "And that is why you should never plan out a war Jon," he said. "You don't have the patience for proper preparations, no, better by far to simply place you in the front and point you at the enemy I think."

"Perhaps," Jon agreed. "At least I'll have more fun while the rest of you old codgers laze about in a tent staring at faded maps."

* * *

** The Crow's Eye: **

Euron let out a huge bark of triumphant laughter. Ever since Balons pitiful little rebellion he had been sailing all over the world in search of treasures, and magic. Already the hold of the Silence was full of various artefacts that he had as of yet to figure out a use for, and shackled to the oars were dozens of second rate sorcerers, blood mages, woods witches, hedge wizard, alchemists… You name it, and he probably had them. And now, he had the treasure of all treasures. Looking down at the object in his hand he let out another braying laugh. Long, curled and pure black, with bands of brass with engraved runes that he hadn't yet deciphered this dragonhorn, out of all the treasures he found in Old Valyria was truly the crown jewel.

Iwas was a shame, he admitted to himself that travelling through the Smoking Sea had come at such a cost. All but one of his mute crewmen were dead, as well as half of his magicians, all of them sacrificed so that the rest of his cabal of sorcerers could keep up the protections that let his ship traverse the dangerous waters, but such reward. The amount of room in his hold had been reduced by half, filled up with ancient tomes and scrolls, weapons of Valyrian Steel, not to mention the full suite of armour he wore. For a brief moment he considered putting his own sigil on it, but the idea of an Ironborn wearing what must have been one of the few full sets of Valyrian Steel armour that had been forged for House Targaryen was just too good, it was a spit in the face of those sisterfucking bastards.

And now with the horn in his possession he needed only find a dragon. He could scour the hundreds of books and tomes he had in his possession for a clue of how to hatch the seven eggs he had brought with him, but why do that? He had a dragonhorn, and while he hadn't found any dragons in Old Valyria, that did not mean there weren't any dragons still out there. Some Empress in the east had once possessed a dragon a few centuries ago, and then of course the Targaryens had their own dragons, But they were all dead...or at least according to the Maesters at any rate, yet Euron couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was overlooking, at the very least it wouldn't hurt to look into the Dance of Dragons and its aftermath.

His decision made, Euron took a glance at the sun, noting its position before turning the ship onto a western course, it was time to return to Westeros and make a little visit to the Citadel, the Maesters had the answers he was looking for, and Euron was not going to take no for an answer…

* * *

** THE PRINCESS OF THE SUN: **

Arianne clung to Tyene in her chambers. Upon her return her father had been _furious_. Only one other time had she seen the normally calm Doran Martell so angry, and that had been when words of Aunt Elia and her children, Ari's cousins Aegon and Rhaenys had been so brutally slaughtered in the capitol by the Lannisters, who then got away with rewards instead of punishment. At least until Jon Snow – Stark killed Clegane.

In hindsight Arianne should have suspected sooner. Moon tea was not foolproof, and drunk regularly over time could have adverse effects, though common wisdom taught that it usually made it safe to fuck for near a week after ingesting, and it was only once she actually started to recognize the symptoms that she remembered with a certain amount of horror that both Nymeria and herself had foolishly forgotten to replenish their cups for a new doze after spilling their first one during their impromptu fight in the great hall of Moat Cailin.

Poor Tyene at least could explain that she **had** taken the tea… once, that and Tyene and Nym were both bastards, not expected to do anything, unlike Ari who was the next ruler of Dorne. Had a Princess of Dorne ever birthed a bastard before? Truthfully Ari didn't know, ' _and I get two for the price of one,'_ she sulked. Remembering how she had almost fainted when the Maester alluded that she was most likely carrying twins, one thing was for sure, she was gonna murder Jon. Bloody. Stark if she ever saw him again...most likely.

They had left Moat Cailin the same time as Lord Jon and the 'King' had left for Winterfell, their uncle Oberyn among those following him, while Ari and all her cousins had travelled by carriage to White Harbour. They'd been feasted by Lord Wyman Manderly until their bellies were close to bursting for five days before a ship was ready for them. Due to the weather the trip across the Narrow Sea to Braavos took them near a month, and not one of their party questioned why they felt sick. Of course, they fretted somewhat when Ari and Tyene still puked their guts out every morning when in Braavos, but so did a few others in their party, both men and women so none of them paid it any mind.

However when the spent the next one and a half moons constantly sick in the mornings when sailing south from Braavos, as well as the suddenly more sensitive and at times aching breasts they started to worry, especially since Nym who didn't have the morning sickness as much as Ari and Tyene still shared their other symptoms. And by the time they reached Sunspear there was little doubt. Nym and Tyene, both had always been a lot slimmer than Ari and they were starting to show a small bump on their bellies, as did Ari, though hers was a bit bigger, which was why the Maester concluded that she was carrying twins, as Ari's more voluptuous form _should_ have hidden the bump a few more weeks apparently.

Obara the bitch though, she was having the time of her life, and Ellaria had been of no help either when she met with them in Braavos, bursting into peals of laughter on their shared boat trip to Dorne when she sniffed out the likely cause of their discomfort. And Elia, the little bitch… Ari barely had time to greet her father in the Water Gardens before Elia burst out with 'Ari, Nym and Tyene are pregnant.'

The ensuing explosion had been _awful_. First her father had looked hopefully at Ari, as if it was all a bad joke, and then once no such reassurance was given he had forced all three of them through a most… intimate and invasive examination by Maester Caleotte, who did confirm their pregnancies, as well as to inform them that due to the length they had probably been with child it would be dangerous to take moon tea. So Ari would now have to live with the shame that she was probably going to be the first Dornish Princess to give birth to not one, but two bastards. Her marriage prospects had just lessened immensely, and any hope she had to choose a husband or have any say at all was gone according to her father, who explained that if she wasn't responsible enough to avoid getting a bastard in her belly then how in the world could she be responsible enough to pick a sensible husband?

At the very least Ari still had her uncle Oberyn's return to look forward to. Her father was **not** going to be pleased with her uncle's failure to keep her from doing something foolish, like getting herself with child. But the worst part was that after a trusted courier sent by her uncle had arrived, her father had apparently lost all anger towards Jon Stark, instead he had taken Trystane aside and informed him that he would foster and squire for the northern Lord when he returned from some expedition beyond the Wall. When Ari had questioned why her father had simply responded with 'justice and loyalty', which could mean any of a thousand things, certainly nothing that Ari could divine. At least her father had taken her aside and informed her that he had once considered making her Queen to Viserys Targaryen, but since that would not be possible any longer due to reasons he refused to speak of he would take a greater hand in her education to prepare her to become the next ruler of Dorne.

Ari wouldn't lie. She had burst into tears at that, broken down sobbing in her father's arms actually, for so long she had feared that he would replace her with Quentyn after a letter she had once found in his solar. Still, she would have liked to go without the constant disappointed looks and remarks about her foolishness, and she couldn't really refute them either. Her biggest weakness had always been how easily she was distracted by a pretty man, or woman for that matter. And for all else he was, Jon Stark was definitely a handsome man, and that cock and tongue – she shuddered, best not think of that. She was unlikely to see the northern warrior for some time, or ever, the lands beyond the Wall being quite dangerous after all.

* * *

** AN: **

**Well, that is this update finished. I would have preferred to finish it fully, but with all the stuff I wanted to put into this chapter it would probably come closer to +15k words, so instead of waiting even longer for an update I decided to end it here and publish this part. My plan is to take a day or two and then get right back to the next part, which will bring us back to Last Hearth and the Wall, and possibly beyond as well, and while that happens, tragedy will strike south of the wall, and just what IS Euron Greyjoy up to?**

  


**A BIG thanks to Avery_Fontaine who wrote the opening for me after I gave him a few points to go by.**

  


**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys**

 


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